Stage II
by Happys Hitwoman
Summary: Bow out gracefully, transfer or excommunicated. Those were the choices. And after almost 2 decades as Redwood's SAA, Tig Trager seeks recompense with another charter. Tig/OFC (ON HIAITUS AS OF 11/7/13)
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: My one and only LONG one!**

** I had come up with this idea a while ago while in my 'Tig' phase. It recently began to nag and have been quietly writing it behind the scenes. I've been fascinated with the downward spiral his character has taken and want to play upon canon events and put my own AU spin on it. Takes place after Season 4, but those events do not play into the story. I now have half dozen chapters written and the rest will be an easy, fast write so I'm posting the first chapter.**

**The story starts briefly in Charming, then shifts immediately to Tacoma where it'll stay there. To those of you who read my very first story, The Night That Changed Everything you'll be happy to know that I will be utilizing the clubhouse characters only from that story (minus Hap & Kozik of course). This is no way a continuation, sequel or follow up to that story. This is strictly a Tig/OFC story - no multiple couples or convoluted drama (well, some!), however I thought it would be a fun way to incorporate those members and characters into it since I already fleshed them out. However, it isn't necessary you read TNTCE before this. You can still follow this as they'll just appear to be new characters to you. To those of you who have read, enjoy revising Hank, Bully, sweetbutt Pam and especially Nora.**

**I do so hope you enjoy this. As per the usual disclaimer, I do not own any part of SOA nor do I take credit for their characters. If you don't recognize a character, consider them mine! For those of you who are familiar with my work, I love working a civilian female who are real with relatable flaws. This story is no different! The meaning of the title will come into play later in the story - you'll see!**

**Please enjoy and hopefully review. As long as I've been here, it never gets old. I've had great readers over time who have inspired me to continue to write even when RL has crunched.**

**~A~**

**Chapter 1**

**April, 2012**

**Charming, CA**

So this was how his tenure at Redwood was going to end – being kicked out on his ass for acting upon a lie.

For this, Tig preferred to stand rather than sit in his former spot which had since been given to Chibs. He didn't want to be eye level with Jax – knowing his eyes would go directly to the President's patch he ripped off Clay's cut from his hospital bed. He now knew the entire truth – the Niners had nothing to do with Clay's shooting. But that's the lie Jax had come up with which sent Tig on a tailspin ride into Oakland and straight into an outdoor café table occupied by LaRoy. Although he escaped unscathed, the young woman he was sitting with perished – who turned out to be the daughter of a very powerful street lord in Oakland. With a lot of phone calls, money exchanges and promises to owe back favors, Jax pulled enough strings to where her death never traced back to the Sons – or Tig.

But that didn't mean his actions would go unpunished.

"Go ahead," Tig said, unaffected by the smug prince-turned-king at the head of the table.

Jax motioned to the chair to his right. "Sit…."

"Ain't my chair anymore….._pres_," his voice dripped that last word like venom. "Just say it."

"Fine." Jax flared nostrils like an angry bull, but all Tig thought it did was make him look ridiculous. "Two choices – leave quietly or transfer."

Pushing away from the door, Tig rolled his eyes around the room before they landed on Jax. "Oh, you gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me?"

Jax shook his head. "I'm doin' you a favor."

"A _favor_?" His voice was incredulous. "A fuckin'_ favor_? Really, Jax…_really_?"

"You have any idea what I had to do to cover your fuck up, Tig…"

"Which only happened because _you_ fuckin' _lied _to me!"

_"Hey!"_ Jax's shout reverbed around the enclosed room. "_No one_ twisted your arm to drive off like a maniac asshole to go run down LaRoy. _You,_ Tig – you did that _yourself_. Why? Because you're loyal to Clay. Which makes me think you'll never be loyal to me."

Through his burning anger, Tig knew the entitled little twat was right. He was loyal to Clay – like a pit bull. He did drive off without thinking and, yeah, finding it within himself to give a hundred percent loyalty to Jax didn't sit well with him.

"Like I said, Tig," Jax continued. "I'm doin' you a favor. I pulled a lot of strings to back the heat off you – _and_ us. None of the other guys know. You want to take your chances and have me bring it to the table? You want to risk bein' voted out? Excommunicated? Have to black out your ink?"

No, no and…..no. Those weren't choices, but neither was leaving the one and only charter he ever called home. Leaving willingly wasn't an option as his days would be empty voids of nothingness. But to start all over again…..…..in a different charter? Being out of his element made him itch. But he had no choice – other than the one Jax made for him. "Where?"

"Where, what?"

"Where do I go?"

Pulling a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth, Jax flicked his silver lighter and lit up. "That's the last string I pulled. Tacoma."

North to Washington. Cold, dreary, rainy – shitty. He'd been to the clubhouse several times – tough president, loyal guys….. decent pussy. They picked up the gun run from the Portland and carried it to the Canadian border as well as protection runs, gambling and prostitution. He'd be neck deep in what he was born and bred for as an outlaw, unlike the mamby-pamby direction Jax would no doubt take the club in. "Yeah – and what if it ain't unanimous? Then what?"

"Already is. Talked to Hank. Between losing Koz when he came here and some new patch gettin' his ass thrown in WA State Pen for five, their table's a bit thin. Believe it or not, he's lookin' forward to havin' ya."

Sarcastic little shit, Tig thought. If his fucked up back wasn't up against the proverbial wall, he'd knock Jackson Teller and his president's patch right into next week_. That_ would be worth excommunication and an arm full of black ink. "I'm takin' they don't know."

Jax shook his head. "Nope. I didn't clean up your mess in order empty the dustpan on Tacoma."

Fingers twitched at Tig's side, desperately trying to keep from curling into fists. He had to suck up and take whatever shit Jax dished out. Fine – let him take over Redwood and run it into the ground. "So….when does this happen?"

"We're at the table tomorrow at noon. I'll announce your transfer. Tacoma's expecting you within two weeks. Got a rental outside the district you can take over. That should give you enough time to get your shit together, clean out your locker and say your goodbye's."

Enough, already. "Yeah, you know, turn my fuckin' life upside down – fine, but keep the sarcasm."

"Can you actually stand there and say you blame me, Tig?"

"Yeah – I can. For the lie – that's all on you, bro."

"Duly noted. But I need to count that guys aren't gonna be takin' off on their own payback agenda."

Tig was already making his mental list – pack, close out his safety deposit box and fashion a Jax Teller voodoo doll to remind him who he was forever grateful to. "It's already in the bag?"

"I said it was."

One last move before he left for the night, Tig reached for his knife, slid off his cut and pulled his _Redwood Original_ patches off. His eyes never left Jax's as he placed them on the table. Sliding them over, Tig took one more glance at the President's patch Jax now wore before meeting his eyes. "I cut off my own," he said. "And I don't need two weeks. After church tomorrow, I'm outta here. Take some time off before headin' north."

Jax didn't look as if he'd argue. "Fine. Your choice, Tigger."

_That _was rich, Tig thought with a sarcastic snort. "Yeah – only one I'm able to make right now."

**One Month Later**

**May, 2013**

**Tacoma, WA**

Sometimes starting over meant starting at the bottom.

And at thirty five years old with six years working at one of Seattle's prestigious hedge funds and asset management companies behind her, it didn't that bachelor's degree in finance she earned to convince Karen Spencer that a position as a bank teller at Tacoma Savings Bank was below sea level.

"I'm leaving for a meeting." Jane Marsh slid her tweed covered arms into an sumptuous Burberry raincoat as she stepped to the counter. She glanced behind Karen at the clock on the wall. "You leaving at three?"

"Yes," Karen replied, gathering her purse and paycheck under the counter. "Just need to deposit my check, get some cash then run home in time to meet the movers."

Adjusting her collar, Jane made sure her face never cracked any kind of a smile. _Ms._ Marsh, as Karen quietly called her to herself, clearly separated herself from her subordinates and rarely, if ever, showed any interest in their personal lives. But she clearly showed some when it came to Karen – even if it came across gruff. "Movers?"

"New bed."

Jane pulled her suit sleeves down from where they bunched up under her raincoat. "Think you'd get a car before wasting your money on furniture." Yep, gruff and opinionated.

"Can do without a car for now. I can practically see the bank from my balcony and everything else is in walking distance. And I learned to love the bus."

Not exactly something a woman who drove a Mercedes would relate to. "Well, it's your choice," Jane said, checking the contents of her briefcase. "You're taking care of yourself – without _anyone's_ help."

Karen understood Jane's feminist code and _anyone_ was translation for _a man._

"Take this last customer then get out of here. See you tomorrow."

All alone out front, Karen waved over the customer – a burly construction worker with gritty fingernails and part of a late afternoon crumb bun stuck in his beard. "Just cash it, sweetheart," he said, sliding his paycheck and license across the counter.

Silently wretching at the stench of dirt, sweat and bad breath, Karen checked endorsement and license – careful not to make a mistake or let anything get by her. One month into her job, she still had two left on her probationary period after laying out the complete truth to Jane of what she left behind in Seattle. And though _Ms._ Marsh was a by-the-book bank manager, her feminist beliefs found that major chink in Karen's armor not too tarnished. Whatever, Karen was just grateful at this junction – and with her background – to have a job. Any job. But right now, she needed more information from this guy. "Do you have an account with us?"

"C'mon, sweetheart – you see me every Friday," he said, as his eyes peeked down the v-neck of her lavender blouse.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm going to need your account number."

"Look, they know me here," he insisted. "Where's Andrea?"

No one was available right now for Karen to confirm that. Andrea was in back on break and Myra was in the safe. She turned his check over and prepared to write with a pen. "She isn't available. Sir, please – I'd like to help you, so if you'd just give me your account number I can check in the computer…..."

"Look…honey, I'm telling you. I cash my check here – in _this_ bank – every damn Friday. Now be a good girl and cash it."

All Karen could think of was _Ms_. Marsh tearing this chauvinistic douchebag a new one. However, she could not. Still on probation and the lowest on the totem pole, she flashed a polite smile while the clock ticked behind her. "I apologize, sir. I'm still new here," she explained, not that she owed him one. "Just making sure I do things right."

Impatient, filthy fingers tapped against the counter as Karen's insides clenched. But she wouldn't be intimidated nor would she screw up the second chance she'd been given. One mistake, one wrong move, one procedure not followed would ruin her already fragile reputation – even though she was completely innocent. All she could think of were those clients at Vine & Company Holdings who lost hundreds of thousands of these dollars. Because of a bad market – yeah, that's what Preston Vine had convinced her of when all the while he was robbing them blind. This guy wasn't worth her truly screwing up as she handed back his documents. "Unless you can give me an account number, I can't cash your check."

He huffed, he puffed and almost knocked her over with breath that would rival a rotting body. "Are you kidding me, sweetheart?"

"My name's Karen."

"Fine," he bit out as he slid the check back and nervously looked around. "_Please_ cash my check, _Karen_."

He obviously didn't have an account else he would've given it to her. For that, she wasn't going to lose the first job she was able to get since leaving Seattle. "I'll be happy to. But I need an account..."

"Forget it!" he snapped, snatching his check and walking to the entrance. _"Bitch,_" he muttered.

"_Asshole_," she muttered back, just as Myra emerged from the safe. Yeah, nice timing! "Listen, can you do my deposit? Need cash back. Had to be out of here ten minutes ago to meet the movers."

"No problem, dear."

Ol' bitty Myra always called her _dear_. No doubt Ms. Marsh didn't find that too sexist or demeaning. The lull of quiet from a busy afternoon was disrupted when the door loudly opened, followed by scuffling boots. Karen hoped that bacteria-mouthed guy didn't come back. Instead she was faced with someone who was a little more intimidating. Wild hair, piercing blue eyes, leather biker vest and looking like he didn't give a flying fuck. "Can I help you?" she asked

"Need a safety deposit box, doll."

Sweetheart, honey, dear, bitch…doll. Jane would be on the feminist warpath if she heard all these euphanisms. "I'm sorry, but the bank manager issues those during the week. She just left for a meeting. You can come back Monday at nine."

Those blue eyes tried to take in as much as they could of her from behind the counter, until they rolled back with frustration. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, before spinning around to leave.

"Here you go, dear."

With a quick thank you to Myra, Karen quickly counted her cash at the counter, grabbed her purse and hightailed it out of there. The last thing she wanted right now was for another miserable male to walk in and ask for something she couldn't deliver on. Rather than go out the front door, she rushed out the emergency exit which led to the back lot. Behind there was a set of concrete steps which led up to the street above. She usually didn't walk home that way, but she was late and it was a shortcut.

Searching for her cell in her purse to see if the movers arrived, Karen realized she had forgotten her raincoat and the skies were threatening – surprise, surprise. She would have to head around front as the emergency exit was locked from outside. Before she could, she was caught off guard when she was roughly bumped from behind – catching her fall against a wooden post.

"Shut up and gimme the cash."

Catching the wind that was knocked out of her, she looked up and saw that construction guy. Her eyes quickly flitted around – she was alone, at the back entrance which housed some residual parking and no security cameras. The best thing she could do was remain calm. "Sir, please, I don't….."

"Fuck with the_ sir_ shit," he spat out. "You won't give me my cash – then give me yours."

In a fog, Karen quickly tried to remember his name from the paycheck and license he gave her – Jeremy….Johnny…..hell, why was that important right now? This guy had to be stupid knowing she saw his name and could report him. Unless it wasn't his check or license. Unless he was going to…"

Her purse was snatched out of her hand. "Now, bitch! Saw you getting cash through the window."

No, she thought to herself. She needed that money. Needed every damn dime. Suddenly, being stolen from overrode her safety for some insane reason. All she saw were those faceless clients whom she only knew by a name on a printout - and the large dollar amount they entrusted to Vine & Co. Holdings – only to have its owner, not to mention the man she was engaged to and enjoying the fruits of his success, slowly and methodically siphon what was probably their life

She quickly laid out the elements of her escape. The bank was located on the street's downslope – away from prying eyes and ears on the main road above. Twenty five yards, a fitted skirt and a pair of Aigner pumps separated her from bolting to the cement steps – taking her to street level.

Without second thought to her plan, Karen snatched her purse back – making a mad dash across the near-empty lot. Only a beater pickup parked by the steps entrance halted her enough for the footsteps behind her to catch up, pull her back and toss her to the ground. Her knees hit the pavement – the burning sensation from the scraping contact causing her to wince. But before she could look up to face her attacker – and the consequences of her stupid actions – he was….gone. Although she couldn't see, she could hear the sound of a fist connecting with bone and cartilage from the other side of the pick-up. She began to straighten up just as her assailant fell backwards towards the front of the truck.

And his head landing on a concrete parking bumper.

Blood poured from his skull – his lifeless eyes opened and his mouth agape. He was….dead, which took Karen several moments to process a dead body practically at her feet before lifting her head. Not as shocked nor one bit out of breath, was her rescuer– the dark haired, blue eyed biker who came in looking for a safety deposit box. She finally found her voice. "What…._what _did you…you…you _killed_ him."

The guy was absolutely unaffected. "He _fell_."

Quickly Karen grabbed her purse and stood, managing away round the truck to get past this guy, but that didn't deter him. "I don't think so, doll," he called out, swiping his arm out to grab her.

"No!" she gasped, her eyes nervously looking around to see if they'd been seen. If _she'd_ been seen. Shit, she didn't need to be associated with a dead body with the record she left back in Seattle. "I…..I can't. I have to get out of here."

"Get back here!" he bit out with what Karen only could discern as a growl.

But Karen ignored him – her focus on the steps, getting to them, to the top and hope the public street would keep him away from her. Yes, as fast as she could she ascended– taking them one at a time as fast as her attire and footwear would allow, clutching her purse to her chest even as she felt blood drip from her knees. _Just three…two…..one_….., and she was at top with only one block separating her from her house where the movers were no doubt ready to leave. She didn't feel anyone behind her and hoped whoever that guy was just took off as she took a short cut through the parking lot of a commercial condo complex.

The roar of a bike which seemed to come out of nowhere cut her off – blocking her from going further. "Get on," he ordered, "Now."

Was he kidding? Get on a motorcycle with not just some strange biker, but one she just saw kill a guy? Okay, so he _fell_, but…still. She shook her head. "Leave me alone." Her choked whisper was drowned out by the pipes.

Slowly Karen backed away which only caused him to roll forward, close enough for him to reach out and grab her forearm. "Sweetheart, sooner later someone's gonna stumble upon that guy. You wanna be around that?"

"I told you, I can't. Please, just…go. I live down the street. I'm heading there now. I'm…shit, I'm meeting movers." Now she was just babbling. "Please," she fruitlessly backed away. "Go. I won't say anything. I promise. I…._don't _want any trouble. I _can't_ have it."

"Don't try my…"

"I have a _police record_!" Her voice was louder than she would've liked. "I can't be involved."

The sound of cars below level pulling into the back lot caused the biker to move fast. Pulling her forward and towards the back of his bike, he pointed to the seat. "Too late for that. So get that pretty ass behind me so I can get us the fuck outta here."

She had no choice – stay and have someone see her…..them….or take off with him. Twistedly justifying that he did come to her rescue, she did as he said. Sliding her skirt up as un-obscenely possible, she hopped on the back. Both hands never left the purse clutched to her chest until one of his reached back – gloved fingers finding her left wrist before pulling it forward and around him. "You fall off, I don't stop to pick ya up."

Her purse wedged between their bodies, she held on tight – her eyes fixated on _the Sons of Anarchy, Washington _patch on the back of his leather vest as he sped off to destination unknown.


	2. Chapter 2

******THANKYOU for all the faves, follows and reviews. Because I'm an additional chapter ahead writing-wise, I'm posting the second chapter now because it's some serious Tig/Karen time.**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 2**

Was he cursed to have shit follow him wherever he went?

Tacoma wasn't the small confines of Charming where he could piss from one end to the other which is why Tig found himself blindly riding down side roads – taking them well outside the district and away from what would now be a crime scene.

Roughly twenty minutes later, they landed in McCraver Park as the petulant Washington weather filled the seldom-sunny sky with instant gray clouds. Rain would no doubt be imminent – anywhere from a harmless sprinkle to a torrential downpour. If Tig missed anything about Cali, it was the dry, comfortable warmth which was always bike weather.

With any park occupants who had most likely deserted the grounds before being caught in a storm, the place provided the respite and privacy. Pulling up in front of an empty pavilion, he felt his riding partner slide off before he even came to a full stop. Having a dead body on your hands was one thing – it was another to bring an hysterical dame with a police record along for the ride.

Maybe Jax was right – his presence did nothing but bring nothing but damage to those around him.

Kickstanding his bike, he dismounted and took his helmet off – his eyes on the woman standing under the pavilion. Despite the chaos he left behind, his sick self couldn't prevent giving her a good once-over – not bad looking, dark hair, good legs and looking as if she wanted to get as far away from him as possible. And with good reason. When shit like this went down, the last thing he needed to do was play getaway with a female.

Unless that female was a witness to what just went down. And evidence of that was dripping down from her knees.

"Shit," he murmured, reaching into the side compartment of his bike. Pulling out a half bottle of water and semi-clean cloth he ascended the stairs of the pavilion where she had plastered herself against the railing – her purse still clutched to her chest in a death grip. "Relax, doll. Gonna be here a bit."

"How long?"

"Till I say so." Really, he didn't want questions he wasn't sure how to answer. He just needed her to stay calm. "Here."

"I'm not thirsty."

"Ain't to drink," he said, reaching for the strap of her purse, which only caused her to tighten the grip. "I said – relax. I just got ya away from a crime scene – think I'm gonna rob ya like that dead douche? Gimme."

She relented, letting go of her purse so he could drop it on the ground. He then poured some water onto the cloth and handed it to her. "Got blood on your knees. Clean it up."

She looked down at her legs, gasping at the sight of her legs before taking the cloth from him. "Thanks."

As natural as could be, she hopped up to sit on the railing crossing on leg over the other – the move affording him a quick glimpse of what was between. Shit, what the fuck was he doing going for a pussy-peek. _Sick, twisted asshole_. No doubt Jax would be gloating that he made the right decision. But now he watched her as she become suddenly oblivious to his presence, gently cleaning the blood away with shaky hands and careful, feminine strokes – his jaw ticking at the sight of her clean, bare skin underneath.

"More," she said, holding out the bandanna.

Instead of handing her the water, Tig took the cloth and soaked it. She reached out for it, but he swiped her hand away. "Get out," he told her, going to wipe the blood himself.

"I can do it myself…"

"You can barely steady your hands," he said. "I told ya…relax." She did, nervously clenching the railing she was sitting on as he got every last speck of dried blood. What the fuck was he doing – playing nursemaid while that body left behind was no doubt being discovered this very moment?

"_I didn't clean up your mess in order empty the dustpan on Tacoma."_

'_Yeah, thanks a lot Jax'_, he thought to himself. '_I found a way to make my own fucking mess instead_.'

But this was somehow, some way of cleaning up some residual effect of what just went down. The true blowback – if any – would have to be settled later. But not before he got some things straight with her first.

"You and me – gonna have a nice, little talk."

She slid off the railing and inched away from him. "I told you, I won't….."

The pad of his thumb found her lips, blocking her from saying another word. _"I'm_ doin' the talkin' – _you_ listen, got me?" Looking as if she had no choice, she nodded. "First off," he backed away looking dumbfounded, "what the fuck you got a record for?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Is that important?"

"You're the one who blurted it out, doll." Still she remained quiet. "Fine," he said, grabbing her purse off the floor of the pavilion," I'll just get your name and dig it up myself."

She found her way over to him in record time and swiped her hand out. "Give me that!"

He held it out of her reach. "_Name_."

"Karen."

"Karen, what?"

"Spencer."

"A'ight," he dropped the purse. "Tell me what ya did, Karen Spencer?"

Tig never was one to read a female's face – most of the time he rarely saw them – but if he had to pick an emotion she looked downright humiliated right now. "It was back in Seattle. I didn't do anything," she explained. "And the charges were dropped."

One more time. "_What_ charges?" He wanted to be sure he didn't have some psycho, stalking, homicidal female embroiled in this mess.

"Conspiracy to commit embezzlement."

He couldn't help it. He just couldn't. But he threw back his head and laughed, as thunder rumbled in the distance.

"You think that's funny?"

She looked pissed. For some reason, she looked good pissed. Fiery. Hot. That hair of hers a mess from the bike ride which was actually a deep, dark red. Nice – real nice. "I think it's fuckin' hysterical. How the hell'd you get a job in a bank with _that _on your application?"

Again, she shook her head. "Long story. Doesn't matter. I got a second chance."

He couldn't find humor in that as he was in the same proverbial boat as she was – starting a second chapter of his life as an outlaw with a different charter. "That it? That's all?"

She looked exasperated. "That's enough."

To him it was cupcake baking compared to the record and hard time on his resume.

"That's why what happened….I can't be associated with it."

"Like I _can_, sweetheart?"

She retracted herself. "I didn't say that. That guy was in the bank – my last customer before I left. I wouldn't cash his check because he couldn't prove he had an account. He got pissed off and left – right…." She paled a bit

"Right, what?"

"Right before you walked in." She paced to the other side of the pavilion. "Oh, shit!"

That never preceded anything good. He followed her, taking hold of her shoulder to make her face him. "What? Tell me."

Her mind was processing, he could see that. And she looked….scared. Real scared. Damn, damn, damn, fuck! What made him go back there and find her being manhandled? He should've just minded his own business. Left well enough alone. Not act on impulse like he did with Clay's shooting. But he wouldn't solidfy Jax's opinion of him as some reckless prick.

"My boss saw him in line before leaving for her meeting," she continued, "told me to take him as my last customer before I left. Then, he left, you came in and the lady cashing my check saw you. They're gonna find this guy in the back of where I work. We're gonna be questioned if we saw him. My boss…me…then if my coworker mentions some biker coming in around that time, the police might…shit!"

Shit, was right. The little cookie was no longer hysterical – she was sharp enough to piece together any potential fallout from this. The slow falling rain behind him caused a bit of a lull in his psyche, even as he tried to piece together his own puzzle. He gently took her chin to face him. "Listen to me and listen carefully and we both walk away without a scratch, understood?"

She went from hysterical, to sharp thinker to downright terrified. He saw it in her eyes – dark green with flecks of brown and watering up. Her bottom lip trembled as the urge to run his thumb over it again was quickly tapped down. "You waited on the guy, he left, you left – out the _front _– and went straight home. That's it. That's all you say. You heard _nothin_'. You saw even less. If I come up – I came in and left. Again, that's all you say. The punch didn't kill him – losin' his balance and hittin' his head did. That's what they'll see. What he was doing behind there and why – that's up to the police to figure out, but I scanned the lot before goin' back and no one was around. Landscapin' on either side of the bank buffer the plaza and street."

"And there's no cameras in back," she offered up.

He nodded, hearing a bit of relief in her voice. Not much, but it was a start. Now for the real kicker. "My club's gotta know about this."

She pulled away from him. "What…..why? No…."

"Ain't your call, doll. I don't talk to cops, but if me bein' there comes up and they come sniffin' around my clubhouse, our stories gotta jive." He was seeing more and more similarities between his situation and Karen's – they didn't want anything screwing up the second chance they'd been given.

"Okay, fine," she said, huddling against the railing. The damp weather caused her to briskly run her hands up and down her bare arms. A gentleman would've taken off his hoodie to give to her. But that's the last thing he was right now. Still, the sight of her was tugging at an emotional aspect he didn't need right now. Women who came into contact him either wound up dead or…...divorced from him. But she was the only witness and had to reconcile himself to the fact that he needed to keep close tabs on her until this shit blew over.

Maybe longer.

And as quickly as it started, the rain stopped – the sudden lack of the sound of it hitting the grass was eerily loud. "What time is it?"

Walking over to where he purse was, Karen picked up and pulled her cell out – groaning over the missed call. "Damn – the movers."

"What?"

"That's what I was headed home early for – had movers delivering a bed and a frame."

"That's the least of your worries right now. Time?"

She pressed the button on her iPhone. "Almost four thirty."

"Where's your car parked?"

"I don't have a car. I live at the end of the street at the top of those stairs."

"Maybe you should buy a car instead of a bed."

"Yeah," she groaned. "Once I'm done paying off my lawyer. Can…..can I just go home, now? Please?"

It was probably a good a time as any – especially before it started to rain again. "C'mon," he said, leading the way to his bike. With the bandanna, he wiped off the seat before throwing a leg over and looking at her. "Get on."

"One question," she asked.

"What?"

"I don't know your name."

Did she really need to? Although she had no idea she wouldn't be seeing the last of him, did he think it important she have his name? "Tig." That answered that.

Her purse strap across her body, Karen did as told – this time putting both arms around him without being told. He not only needed to keep her quiet, but safe as well. What a joke _that_ was – being entrusted with a woman's safety? Jax would get a good laugh out of that.

Back towards Tacoma's center, he came onto her street from the opposite side – slowing down at the faint glare of flashing red lights visible down the other end to the street level below where the bank was.

They had found the body.

"Tig?"

His name on her lips almost sounded trusting – trusting him to keep her out and away from this mess. But she needed to hold up her end. "Just remember what I told ya," he said, using his boots to roll his bike down the street as he scanned the buildings. "Which one?"

"Small condo units right there," she pointed to a cluster of six or eight detatched units set back from a private driveway with the name _Cedar Hill_ poised at the entrance. Probably because the exterior was cedar and they were at the top of the hill.

"Go on – get inside." He felt her slide off then stand for a bit, looking towards the obvious commotion down the street below. "What did I say, Karen?"

"It doesn't mean I'm not worried," she replied.

"Just stick to what we talked about – no more, no less – a'ight?"

Even though she nodded, Tig sensed she was still uneasy. He had to remember that shit he was numb affected civilians like a jolt of electricity. "Hey," he called out as she walked away.

She turned around. "What?"

"We ain't done here. You know that, right?"

Again, that nod which barely convinced him.

"Which unit's yours?"

"Why?"

"Tell me, Karen."

"Number twenty four – townhouse," she pointed above to the balcony of a unit which had a little table, two chairs and an overgrown hanging plant. "That one."

He looked from the balcony to the street below. "Got a good view."

"Yeah," she kind of half-chuckled. "I'll have quite a show to watch when I get upstairs."

"Don't," Tig told her. "Don't go out there, don't look out the window – nothin'. Just….stay in and outta sight."

She let out a heavy sigh. "Okay. Tig?"

"Yeah?"

"I suppose a…. _thank you_ is in order. Although I'm not exactly sure what I'm still going to be indebted to."

He did, but she didn't need to know that right now. They had to get past the hurricane before assessing what damage it left behind. But there he was – adding another innocent female to his carnage total. At least this one was alive. And as much as babysitting an eye witness to his actions irked him, he'd do what he had to to make sure she stayed that way.

That crazy, emotional pull overtook him – making him want to reach out, take her hand, caress the inside of her wrist. But he needed to be the one thing Jax thought he couldn't be capable of – and that was smart.

"I'll be in touch," was all he said, hoping it wouldn't illicit anymore questions.

Thankfully taking the hint to go, Karen went down the driveway and to her door – his eyes on the back of her legs, the cling of her skirt against her ass, that deep red hair spread across her shoulders as his hands gripped the bars. Only once she was safely inside, did he continue to manually roll his bike down the street, closer to the end to where he could see what was going on. He meant what he had told Karen earlier – the club had to know about this. Hank was a tough president – wise and methodic - and Tig respected the shit out of him. He reminded him a bit of Clay – minus the lies and deceit.

"_I didn't clean up your mess in order empty the dustpan on Tacoma."_

And he wasn't going to start a new mess one month into his new tenure here. Reaching for his phone, he flipped it open and called. "Hank, it's me. Somethin's gone down. We need to talk – asap."


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks again for the support. This really is proving to be a very fast write. Been quite some time since I concentrated on just two people for an entire story and I had forgotten how personal it could be. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Three**

If Karen went over her story once, she went over it a thousand times.

And while she stood in front of the bathroom mirror putting her make up one, she recited it one more time before forcing herself to think of something else. Too much rehearsal could be a bad thing.

Pulling the towel off her head, she combed out her wet hair. Walking to her room, she pulled on a pair of pale blue panties and matching bra before heading to the living room. Turning on the television,she hoped some background sound would close down her thoughts. In desperate need of coffee, she headed to the kitchen and popped a k-cup in the Keurig. As the last of the coffee sputtered out, she heard the words 'body' and 'Tacoma Savings Bank' on the television.

Abandoning her coffee, she went in the living room, found the remote and turned up the volume. Bile rose to her throat as the events of late yesterday afternoon were displayed on the screen. _A body was found…behind Tacoma Savings Bank…..possible freak accident….no evidence of foul play…..no name being released at this time….._

She felt her heart trying to bust out of her chest. This was wrong. This was so very wrong. And she'd be lying if she wasn't a wreck over it. Even though one particular person treated it as if it nothing but a loose end to tie up.

"_Just stick to what we talked about – no more, no less – a'ight?"_

Yeah – just like that. Jive your stories and wait for this Tig to '_be in touch'_. For what, Karen thought to herself? Did he not trust her? Was he being completely honest with her? Once he talked to his club, was she going to wind up being a '_loose end'_ which needed to be tied up?

Turning the television off, she got her coffee – hoping it would wash away the sick bile taste. As if she thought being cuffed, read her rights and kept in a room until her attorney showed up to prove her innocent of embezzlement wasn't bad enough – now she was in collusion with a local biker to cover up the details of a murder. No….._not_ murder. He _fell_ – plain and simple. End of story. It was an accident, but obviously one some guy who probably made her solo arrest look an after-thought.

Taking a sip, she headed back to the bathroom where the buzzing hair dryer provided some distraction. A few twists of the curling iron later, she lightly spritzed anti-humidity hairspray to keep the effects of this state's lovely weather from turning her head into a fuzzball. Her first thought upon waking up was to call in sick, but then wondered if it would look suspicious. The bank would be buzzing about this for quite some time so there was no escaping it. She had no choice but to put her trust in a rough looking biker with unsettling blue eyes, sharp features and a surprising gentle hand cleaning the blood from her knees.

Looking down, they were a bit bruised and scraped so a skirt was out of the question. Perusing the contents of her closet, she chose her outfit wisely - dark gray dress pants, red, knit top and her _piece de resistance _– a pair of black, Louboutin shoes with the trademark red sole. One of the very few luxury items Preston had showered her with using now-known embezzled funds. Jewelry, a fox coat, Birkin handbag – anything purchased during their engagement with tainted money she hocked. Except for the shoes and the fifty two inch flat screen television which, other than her mocha-leather sectional couch, coffee table, dining set and bedroom dresser which had furnished her Seattle condo, she pretty much got rid of anything she could get money for to pay off the legal debt she left behind. Her decision to purchase this condo with the proceeds from the other seemed better than renting. In case she went months without finding work, she at least only had to worry about utilities and groceries. And to fund her drained kitty, her 2011 Audi went since she could practically skateboard to work.

She even sold her bed she often shared with Preston as she was determined to tie off any emotional as well as physical connection with him.

The bed! Yeah, that's another thing she has to do today was reschedule the delivery after the movers probably thought she blew them off yesterday afternoon. No – she was only on the run from a crime scene with some insane biker.

Finishing dressing, then her coffee, she dabbed on rose-colored lipstick, hooked in a pair of silver hoops, grabbed her purse and left. Thankfully, it was Saturday and the bank was only open until noon. Each day she made it up and down the sloped street with ease, even in heels. Her feet may be sore, but at least her ass and legs were getting a workout.

She avoided the steps leading down the street's lower level – which would mean she'd have to cross the back lot. She didn't want to be anywhere near the scene. Didn't matter anyway – from where she could see from the street, the back area was sectioned off with yellow caution tape.

She made it to the bank's front entrance by eight twenty a.m. to find Jane, Myra and Andrea – a tempermental, twenty-something who did nothing but complain – huddled talking.

"Karen – did you hear?"

The biddie may be a bit slow, but Myra barely let Karen get a red-soled foot in the door. _ Remember what Tig told you. Act natural._ "I heard on the news this morning," she replied. "What does anyone know?"

"Nothing so far," Jane immediately replied – her demeanor as starched as her winter-white suit. "Business as usual, ladies. If any authorities come in to speak to anyone, we'll deal with it then."

'_Thank you Miss Marsh'_ Karen thought – nipping the possibility for any gossip or talk. And when a woman who could've rivaled Anita Bryant back in the days of feminist glory laid down the law – you obeyed.

Unfortunately, that law didn't apply to customers – who flooded the bank with inane transactions if only to find out what was going on. Karen kept up the façade and played dumb – politely mentioning that she only knew what she heard on the news. After the rush of the first two hours, Karen went to prepare to count her drawer around eleven forty five when a man in a London Fog duster walked in. Nothing new – it was a trademark day filled with clouds threatening to disrupt the unusual sunshine, but the flashed badge gave indication that he were not there to open a new account and get a free toaster. _Shit, this is it_, she told herself, as Jane bee-lined out of her office – as if to shield this man from her tellers like a mother hen. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Would like to ask a few questions about the incident," the investigator said. "See if any of you recognize the victim. Figure since this happened behind the bank that he may have been a customer." He reached into his pocket, opened a small, leather notebook and pulled out a photo. "Look familiar?"

As Karen watched the exchange, Jane took the photo between her fingers – her all-business face never changing. "Not sure. Do you have a name? We can look it up….."

"Can't give that out yet, ma'am…..…"

"It's _Ms._ Marsh if you don't mind." Atta girl, Karen thought.

"Pardon me – _Ms_. Marsh. We're not releasing the name officially until tomorrow morning's paper. However if you recognize him…"

"Hold on," Jane interrupted with the flat of her hand held up. Nope, she wasn't going to let a man dictate _any _meeting she was a part of. She then looked towards the counter. "Karen, wasn't this that man in line yesterday before I left?"

_Shit_, Karen thought, forcing herself to remain calm. Jane had barely glanced at the guy before leaving and recognized him. She couldn't lie. All she could do was tell the truth of what happened – _inside _the bank. As for outside….

"_Just stick to what we talked about – no more, no less – a'ight?"_

Coming out from behind the counter, Karen walked over and took the photo Jane handed to her. She knew eyes were on her – one pair specifically trained to read body language and facial expressions so she was careful to keep hers unaffected. She didn't have to study the face too long. It was him. What was the name on that paycheck and license again?

Playing up to the part, Karen put a hand to her mouth to feign shock. "Oh my god – you're right. It is."

"You waited on him yesterday afternoon?" an investigator asked.

"Yes. He was my last customer."

"What time was that?"

"Three-ish."

The investigator with the notebook scribbled notes with an over-sharpened pencil before looking up. "What was his transaction?"

Karen took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "He wanted his check cashed. But I didn't recognize him and gave me a hard time about giving me an account number."

The investigator raised an eyebrow? "A…._hard _time?"

Wow, he's going to take anything she says seriously. Changing her game face, she relaxed a bit. "Just trying to convince me he got his check cashed here every Friday. I asked several times for his account number, but wouldn't give it to me. I've only been here a month and didn't want to break procedure. Jane was gone, Andrea was on break and Myra was in the safe so I couldn't check with anyone. And when I asked if he'd like to wait until I can find someone to vouch for him, he took his check back and left."

"And that was it?"

_That _was definitely not a lie. "Yes."

The investigator sighed himself. "Well, that explains the paycheck in his pocket. Do you happen to remember the name, Karen?"

She tried to remember it yesterday when he accosted her, but now that she was somewhat calm – even in the face of being questioned – her focus was better. It was something that began with a _J_ – _John…Jim…Jay…James – yes!_

"It was James. James Eisen. Something like that."

Nodding, the investigator flipped a page of notes back to re-read something. "That's him." He then looked at Jane. "Is he in your system?"

"I"ll do it!"

Andrea, the young teller, quickly rushed to the keyboard only to have Myra shoo her away and do it herself. "I have it," Myra said as she slowly tapped letters. "No. Nothing's coming up. He said he got his check cashed here?"

"Every Friday," Karen said. "He…..." she didn't want to rat, but her own skin was at stake, "had asked for Andrea."

Crossing her arms, Jane walked over to a very nervous looking Andrea. "Have you been cashing checks for people who don't have accounts here?"

"I….what? Me? Why're you blaming me?"

"Because Karen turned him away and Myra would've too. So…..you're it."

_Thankful for the diversion, Jane_. Karen had to grin. Andrea picked the wrong woman to tangle with.

"Ms. Marsh, please," the investigator said. "Just a few more questions."

Two customers had come in – an elderly man and some pretty dude who looked as if he just finished working out at the gym. Andrea began to flirt with the guy from afar, but an evil glare from Jane made her look about ready to melt from it before she approached the investigator. "We still have customers. You have time for one more question, then you have to leave so we can close out."

"Fine," he said, addressing Karen and Myra as Andrea took the two customers while Jane stared her down. "Did anyone else come in the back after James Eisen left?"

Everything was going perfect – until now. Yeah, someone did come in – the guy responsible for the dead one who was scraped off the ground last night. Karen paused to think for good measure. "Um, I don't think…"

"Oh yes," Myra cut in. "Some man dressed like a biker."

Karen was surprised ol' Myra knew what constituted a biker, having no choice but to play along. "Oh…..yeah….him." she tried to sound bored. "Wanted to open a safety deposit box, but Jane does those. Told him to come back on Monday."

"And?"

"He left."

"Not too happily," Myra added. _Shut up, Myra!_

"He was just frustrated, I guess," Karen said, trying to save it.

"So he left and then," looking at Karen, "Did anyone else come or go?"

"I said only _one _more question," Jane said, saving the freakin' day. "We have to close. Please," she motioned to the door. "I'll see you out. You can come back Monday after nine if you have anymore questions."

Looking properly put in his place by a feminist bitch, he smiled politely, put his notebook away, said his thanks and left. With both customers gone, Jane shut the door, turned the deadbolt then made eye contact with Andrea. "My office – now please."

With a loud huff and a muttered 'shit', Andrea slapped the work down she was beginning to reconcile and followed like an obedient dog.

"Maybe the little tart will be more pleasant," Myra said.

Her heart calming down a bit over what was an uneventful questioning session, Karen acknowledged her. "Why Myra….such language." Yes, joking was a good thing right now.

Waving Karen off, Myra began to count out her drawer. "So, what do you think really happened, dear?"

Using a calculator, Karen began to reconcile her own daily work and shook her head. "I have no idea. News called it a freak accident."

"You don't have the chills that you just saw that man inside here right before he died?"

_Not just inside, Myra. I was on the ground when his head hit concrete, cracked open and oozed like an egg_. "Yeah, kind of, I guess." What else could she say.

"I'm surprised you didn't see anything dear. I thought I heard you go out the emergency exit."

When did this biddie suddenly turn into Angela Lansbury? "No. No, I went out the front." _Think, think, think…..bingo!_ "If I didn't I wouldn't have forgotten my raincoat hanging in back." It was now safely draped over her purse under the counter before Myra could verify its exact location.

"Oh," Myra said, shaking cobwebs from her head. "Maybe I'm losing my mind."

_I wish you would._


	4. Chapter 4

**Attention Kurt Sutter - do NOT fuck with Tig. You've been warned.**

**But I digress - enjoy and review :)**

**~/~**

**Chapter Four**

**Same Day**

It wasn't the weather that bothered Tig so much, nor was it his new home charter – but rather establishing his place among other long-time members. The guys were awesome. Hank was what a true president should be – tough, grizzled, no-nonsense, willing to take chances as long as there was minimal risk and exposure. Anything for the future and preservation of the club. That was Clay all those years back when he had been named his SAA. JT's death ushered in a different direction, albeit a dangerous one. But when you're an outlaw, you don't count on earning your living flipping houses, investing in land and tinkering with cars. You did hard shit which garnered hard-earned money. It was the pro to the con. The ends which justified the means. That was Clay. That's who he served under and defended with his life.

But not JT's heir who would no doubt turn the clubhouse into a community center for family time, daycare and coffee breaks. Clay played it smart – Jax was playing safe. To Tig, safe meant weak and unsure. If that's where Redwood was headed, perhaps being exiled here was for the better.

As he sat on the backsteps of his modest rental with a cigarette and coffee, Tig reminisced his damaged past between replaying the events of late yesterday afternoon in his head. Taking one last final drag and sip, he thought Karen – hoping she'd be smart and not have to wind up being another chick added to his carnage.

His cell rang and vibrated on the steps next to him. He picked it up and flipped it open. "Yeah?"

"_It's Hank. How about comin' by my house now and we'll talk."_

"A'ight," wondering why Hank didn't want to do this at the clubhouse. Tacoma had an on-site car repair shop just like Redwood so Saturday's were a bit busy there. "Be there in twenty."

Really, it only took him ten to get there, but Tig wanted to take a bit of a detour. And since the weather sported what looked like a bit of sunshine, he wanted to capitalize on it. He pulled down several side roads until he came to top of Karen's street – stopping momentarily to look up at the balcony of her condo in the daylight. The table, chairs and hanging plant were still there and other than the sound of some kids tearing down the hill on their skateboards, it was pretty serene for a late Saturday morning. Slowly, he pulled down towards the bank – seeing the yellow caution tape near where that guy had fell. And that's exactly what he did after Tig hit him – fall. Freak accident and no outward sign of any foul play just like the news said.

He knew the bank closed at noon and figured Karen was working today. Feeling as if the situation was contained for now, he coasted down the street – in time to see the front entrance to the bank open and a guy in a trench walked out. From where the wind whipped his coat open, Tig could see a badge hooked to his belt buckle. Shit – didn't take them long.

He only hoped the red headed cookie played nice.

Ten minutes later he pulled into Hank's driveway – up and around a big, black Lincoln Navigator which belonged his wife. If there was a woman who could not just rival, but maybe even eat Gemma Teller-Morrow's lunch it was Nora. Whereas Gemma used snark and sarcasm, Nora was cutthroat and to the point. She didn't mince words, play games or manipulate, yet the respect she garnered was through the roof. Other ol' ladies followed her like the pied piper while sweetbutts went in the other direction when she entered the clubhouse. She was fiercely loyal to the club and loved her husband the way a woman should.

And the subject of that internal commentary stepped out as he pulled up. Unlike Gemma's long, dark, streaked hair, Nora kept hers short, chic – rich brown and only lightly frosted. Head to toe black except for a shimmery gray raincoat which swept the ankles of her stiletto boots – her dark Aviators and gold jewelry made her look more like a movie star than a biker queen. "Figures," she said, greeting him. "I take off and Hank decides to have men's hour." She met him halfway. "How you doing, darlin'?"

He accepted her kiss on the cheek. She had taken Tig immediately under her protective wing upon his arrival last month – making sure Tacoma's newest member was made right at home with food, drink and pussy. "I'm fine, ma," he joked.

"Watch it, blue eyes. '_Ma'_ is just '_ma'am_' without the last two letters. Go on, I'm sure Hank's waiting. Just make sure there's some booze left. He's already drinking."

Not that it was unusual for club members to be knocking back a few by noon, but something in Nora's tone was uneasy. Inside, he found Hank at the kitchen table – a shot glass and a bottle of brandy in front of him. "Preparin' yourself?" Tig asked somewhat jokingly.

Raising the shot glass, Hank toasted him. "Sounded bad when you called last night, but," he tossed it back, wincing at the obvious fire going down his throat," when you said it could wait till mornin' I'm gatherin' no one ain't dead."

"Yeah, well actually someone is."

"I see." Hank got up, grabbed another glass out of the cabinet, walked back and filled it. He slid it in front of Tig before sitting down. "Drink up and give it to me straight."

Knocking his own shot back, Tig paused at the taste in his mouth. Damn, that was some good shit. "Long story short, I played good Samaritan and the guy died."

Hank swirled the amber colored liquid in his glass. "I prefer the long story."

And Tig gave it to him – every damn moment from the time he walked into the bank looking to open his safety deposit box until after he called Hank after dropping Karen off. With each word he watched Hank's face. He never said a word or even made eye contact – just focused on his drink while he listened. No death glare. No flared nostrils. No entitled little princely fits about how stupid and careless he is. This was a man who was taking what was being told to him and already formulating a counter-plan in his head. Just like several years ago after the truth about those burned Mexican woman came out and several blowjobs worth of Tigger juice was fermenting in their bellies. The first order had been to protect him. Now, with Clay out and Jax in, he was made an example of and shuttled up north for punishment.

"That it?" Hank asked after he was done talking.

Tig nodded. "No one was around – made sure of it. No cars drivin' by, lots of trees coverin', no witnesses."

"Except the girl."

"Yeah – the girl. She ain't a girl, though. Thirties. Educated."

"Good. She's smart. Let's hope she uses them. I, uh…..take it you read her the riot act?"

"Knows what to say and what not to till we're clear."

"We hope." Hank finally pushed away the liquor then leaned back in his chair. Although steely gray with a life of hard living etched on his face, the man was in damn good shape. Still, Tig thought he looked…..tired. "Need to brief everyone on this. Make sure our stories synch. Got a dead body in our backyard – don't think for one moment the cops'll be comin' by to fuck with us."

"Understood."

A moment or two of silence passed before Hank spoke up. ""Appreciate you bringin' this right to me."

"Had no choice."

"Yeah – ya did. Like you said, other than the girl, they're no witnesses. Coulda just kept quiet and let it ride out. You know – like that sitch ya left behind in Charming."

Tig narrowed his eyes as he spun his empty glass around. "What, you…you _know_? Jax told me he didn't…."

"Jax didn't tell me shit, Tig," Hank said, picking up the bottle to pour just a little bit more for both of them. "We follow what goes on in the towns of other charters. Keeps us up to speed in case there's a…..communication breakdown. Clay got shot up by black and not even twenty four hours later a car tries to run into its leader – only some girl winds up collateral damage."

Yeah, Jax obviously didn't tell Hank shit else he would've known the part with Clay was a lie.

"Sons don't exact payback that quick. Without thought. Without plannin'. And in broad daylight. That move was impulse. And because it was Clay, I just put two and two together and figured it was you."

Tig was stunned – feeling the same look of dread come over him when he found out LaRoy wasn't the culprit. "Then why…..why the hell'd you agree to accept my transfer?" He pushed back and stood up, pacing around Hank's large kitchen before placing his hands on a center island chopping block. "Why'd you want me here?"

"You wouldn't have done what you did if it wasn't for Clay," Hank told him. "Was it reckless? Yeah. Was it sheer, blind loyalty to the man you protected with your life for years?" Hell, fuckin' yeah. For that, I can overlook what happened." Draining the last ounce of brandy from his glass, Hank leaned forward – sinewy forearms bearing ink of what seemed like a thousand years. "I need someone with that kind of loyalty here because there's a chance I won't be much longer."

"What, you….." Tig paused in confused, "steppin' down?"

"Unless the good Lord takes me first and tosses me in the basement." Now it was Hank's turn to pause. "I have cancer."

Not what Tig expected to hear. For this he needed to sit backdown. "Hank….shit, man. I'm…..I'm sorry." Displays of emotion and compassion never came easy for him. "What…..where?"

"Prostate, and…..don't gotta tell ya where," Hank mused. "Been havin' some pain in my hips and lower back. Figured it's just age. But when I couldn't piss after three beers and was havin' dick malfunction, went to see a doctor. More like, Nora made me see one. Had some tests and there it was."

Death was a part of Tig's life. Brothers died all the time – most of them killed defending the club. That's the honorable way to go. Up till then, you think you're invincible – then this shit happens. "You gonna have surgery?"

"It's bein' scheduled. Gonna have it removed then a round of radiation. Tellin' the guys Monday. You're the first to know. Which is why I wanted to talk about the other matter here instead of the club. Gonna need ya here in case…"

"Shit, shit, Hank don't say it, brother."

"Never said I was a goner. Doctor said its stage two."

"Meanin'?"

"There's a good chance I can beat it. Once cancer hit's stage three it's pretty much spread to other shit – organs and nodes. By then it's one stage away from bein' outta control. Then there's no turnin' back. No second chance. It's still early enough to beat what's fuckin' with me into submission."

Something about Hanks' situation dug at Tig. It wasn't cancer, but if his outlaw career was a disease, then he'd been on stage four life support for the last year – the latest incident making Jax want to pull the plug. But he didn't – and it bothered Tig to be grateful to the entitled douche. But being banished to Tacoma was second life, a second chance - an opportunity to get back to a stage two of his own.

And he wasn't the only one.

"_How the hell'd you get a job in a bank with that on your application?"_

"_Long story. Doesn't matter. I got a second chance."_

Seems the redhead was in the same sinking boat he was – which kind of intrigued him for some weird reason. He promised he wouldn't be a stranger until this mess died down – he was gonna use it to find out what her story was.

"But," Hank interrupted his thoughts, "if for some reason I can't…..if this shit goes south….I gotta step down. It'll be voted on, but Lorca'll most likely take the gavel. Stewie who left the Nomads to patch in and took Koz's place will likely be V.P. Which means we'll need a new sergeant."

Tig shook his head – unable to fathom he'd be considered. "What about Bully?"

Hank snorted. "He'd rather act than lead. True enforcer. Plus, he feels like he's doing God's work in some strange, religious way of his." He leaned forward. "Nothin's in stone. I ain't dead yet. Just…keep it in mind." Sitting back again, he changed the subject. "So…..this girl. What else can ya tell me?"

"Name's Karen Spencer. From Seattle, I think. Know where she works and where she lives. Told her to expect….._unexpected_ visits."

Hank chuckled. "House calls, eh? Guessin' she's easy on the eyes?"

"Bonus points," Tig said, trying to shrug it off. "Oh, and here's the shit-kicker. She's got a record. Conspiracy to commit embezzlement."

Hank's chuckle went to a full-blown laugh. "Fuckin' kiddin' me?"

Tig shook his head. "Didn't find her liable – charges were dropped, but guess her record wasn't expunged."

Hank let it sink in. "I'll have Frisk check out the deets. You keep her close. Those, uh…..bonus points shouldn't make it difficult."


	5. Chapter 5

**This and the next two chapters are all about Tig and Karen before seguing into intrigue. **

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter Five**

By the time Monday arrived, Karen was more than relieved to have had an uneventful Sunday. Not only did investigators did not come knocking on her door to ask even more questions, but Tig never showed up as he cryptically intended.

The morning went by slow at the brand new start of the week as the clock approached lunchtime, but the heaviness of what transpired late Friday night still hung in the air. The yellow caution tape still sectioned off the scene of the crime, but inside Ms. Marsh was determined to keep everything business-as-usual.

"Please make these, Karen," Jane said, handing her deposits across the counter. "Two new accounts. The people are in my office."

Karen took the checks and paperwork from Jane's hand – wincing at the dated, frosted, white polish on her nails. At least her designer, wool-blend suit kept her stylish. And as Karen set up the accounts in the system, she scolded herself. Who was she to judge anymore? Yeah, there was a time where she was no stranger to Seattle's high-end department stores, courtesy of Preston Vine and the love of luxury he showered upon her. Gorgeous clothes, shoes and handbags – most likely all purchased with client funds and have since been turned over to consignment for whatever extra cash she could get. Now she dressed like a bank teller rather than the fiancé of an embezzler.

Finishing up while Jane drummed those hideous, oval nails against the counter, the front door opened. Both women looked up. Karen kept from turning white as a sheet while Jane gave the man a curious once-over. "May I help you?"

"You who I need to see 'bout a safety deposit box?"

Jane took a feminist stance at the man clutching tightly to a large, stuffed envelope - clearly not liking the way she was spoken too. "I'm finishing up with someone…..sir," she replied. "Karen can get you started on the paperwork."

"I….._can_?" Karen practically sputtered out, handing the receipts back to Jane.

"Forms are in back. Get him started."

Jane disappeared into her office to which he leaned over the counter. "s'okay, doll," Tig whispered. "Rather deal with you anyway."

Keeping a hard-fought cool, Karen backed away from the counter. "I'll be right back…. _sir_."

"I'll be waitin'."

Jesus, was he insane? Karen answered her own question with a resounding 'yes' as she found the forms in question – intent on acting as non-chalant as anyone who witnessed some guy cracking his head wide open and dying before her eyes could. Walking back out, she motioned him to the end. "Over here, please."

After a pause, he slid over, leaning across the counter and a little too close. "Any other orders?"

"Name?"

She met his eyes a lot closer than she did yesterday. The blue was a bit paler, liquid but still intense. He wasn't what you'd call classically handsome – or even basically attractive, but there was a confidence about him which pull a woman in. Right now that confidence was silently saying, _"yeah, I kinda, sorta killed a guy last Friday and waltzed right into the place where it happened. What're you gonna do about it_?"

"Told ya my name."

"Somehow I don't think that's your given name," she told him. "I'll need to see your license."

Eyes never leaving her, he reached into his back pocket. Unsnapping a leather wallet attached to a chain banging loudly against the formica counter, he slid out his license and handed it to her. "Anything else you wanna see?"

He was either baiting her into embarrassment or rattling her to see how far he could go before she'd crack. In a public, federal depository surrounded by co-workers and customers, she would do neither. "That'll do just fine…" she paused, looking at the license, "_Mr. Alexander Trager."_

"Easy….._Karen_." The way he stressed her name sent a strange feeling through her. "That name don't apply to anythin' 'cept that application."

Clearing her throat she continued. "Size?"

"Oh, now you're gettin' personal."

Shit, she put her damn foot in her mouth with that one. "Of the safety deposit box?"

"Biggest one ya got."

Filling out the forms allowed her to keep her eyes anywhere but on him, knowing full well his were fully on her. Watching. Waiting. For an opening.

"Anything you wanna tell me, sweetheart?"

Her eyes darted up – to Jane casually glancing over from her office, to Myra looking nervously in her direction. "No."

"Ya sure?" he insisted. "Saw a badge walk outta here Saturday afternoon."

She halted filling in his information. "You spying on me?"

"Told ya I'd be in touch."

"_In touch_ doesn't mean lurking outside my job."

He shrugged as if he could care less about her opinion. "Rather I lurk outside your condo instead?"

"I'd rather you…" she cut right off. What _would_ she rather have him do – besides distance himself from her as much as possible? Brazenly coming in here told her that he took risks. Welcomed controversy. Liked to stir the pot.

And right now causing eyes cautiously on them.

"Rather _what_, doll?"

Stepping back from the counter, Karen came around and out the front of the lobby. "Follow me."

"Right behind ya."

Giving him a quick back glance, she stepped into Jane's office. "Paperwork's started," she said, placing it on the desk. "Shall I send him in?"

"Hold on," Jane said, picking up an incoming call. Speaking briefly she placed the call on hold then went to a locked cabinet. After looking at the paperwork, she recorded something on a clipboard then handed Karen three sets of keys. "Box number twenty four."

Karen stared at the keys being handed to her. "You want _me_ to do it? But, I never…."

"_This_ key," Jane cut her off, "opens up the door to the room. The other two unlock the box. Lead him to the room and wait while he puts his items in it. When he's done, slide the box back in and lock with both keys." She held up one key key. "Give him this one. Take your lunch break when you're done."

Jane sat down to take her call, but Karen hadn't moved. "But…..."

"That'll be all, Karen."

Sufficiently dismissed, Karen left the office to find Tig smirking. "Guess you're stuck with me."

In more ways than one, she thought as she headed towards the back. "This way."

Once behind the locked door, she entered the room with the boxes, found number twenty four, stuck both keys in, turned them and dislodged the box. "Here," she said, "you're number twenty four."

He stared at the box then gave her an uneasy grin. "Same as your house number, doll. Should be a piece a' cake to remember."

Damn, was that a freakin' omen? Were there invisible forces playing tricks on her? "The number's also on your key. You can step into that room to put your belongings in. I'll wait out here."

Again, he grinned. "Sure you don't wanna come inside?"

Oh, he was slick – that arrogance a testament to that biker club he belonged to. She walked out, repeating herself. "I'll be right out here."

Not even two minutes later he was done – coming out of the room with both hands holding down the top of the box. "This the biggest ya got?"

Karen focused on what he was struggling to hold inside as what looked like stacks of cash visible from where the box wouldn't close. "It is. It needs to close completely else it won't go back in."

"A'ight," he said, pulling two healthy stacks of cash out of the box, stuffing them inside his vest, and closing the box shut – tight. "Done."

Her eyes never left where he tucked that cash away – her mind transported back to Seattle a little less than a year ago – and images of Preston flashing hundreds at fancy restaurants, valet parking, jewelry stores, country clubs and swanky vacation spots. It was never cause for concern why Preston rarely, if ever, used a credit card. She just chalked up being financially sound and not wanting to accumulate debt as a responsible quality for a future husband – when all the while it was cash he deposited from one of several secret accounts where he was slowly funneling client funds into.

It suddenly made her wonder how Tig came into all that cash and why he had to stash it away rather than deposit it– legally.

"No questions."

He blurted that out as if he read her mind. "I don't have any," she said, leading him back into the other room.

"Yeah, well I got one," he asked, sliding the box back in by himself. "What did that badge want?"

"Just general questions. Had a photo of the guy – asked my boss first if she recognized him, which she did from that day. Come to find out he didn't have an account at the bank, but one of the other tellers used to cash his check for him for which my boss chewed her out for."

Tig nodded. "They ask anything specific?"

"Wanted to know if anyone else came in after him. Said I couldn't recall, until Myra said 'some biker came in'." Tig rolled his eyes to where she quickly continued, "said you wanted a safety deposit box and that I told you to come back Monday and you immediately left."

"That it?"

Karen nodded. "Found out his name though. James Eisen."

Tig looked to be thinking before he turned to her and got a little too close in the enclosed room. "They're gonna come back, trust me."

Oh, she didn't need him to tell her that. Investigators came back three times to question her before deciding she knew enough about Preston Vine's thievery to be considered an accomplice. To be escorted from her luxury condo in handcuffs while her neighbors looked on was the lowest depths of humiliation. "I know."

He got up very close to her. "Karen?"

She backed up. "Distance, Tig. They're cameras in here."

Nodding, he backed away. "Don't make me have to worry."

She saw the serious look on his face – trying not to read between the lines of that comment. But she didn't need the 'worry' any more than he did. "I won't," she replied, opening the outer door. "I have to take my lunch break now."

Out in the main lobby, but away from prying eyes, he whispered in her ear from behind. "Meet me next door in ten – by the convenience store."

Careful not to draw attention, she pled with him with her eyes as she whispered, "I don't think we should….."

"Be there."

Two words sternly spoken as he slid his sunglasses on and strode to the door without so much as a look back. Based upon what transpired yesterday she wasn't in any position to argue. Recapturing her composure, she walked into Jane's office. "Returning the door key."

Jane leaned back in her chair, arms folded, those hideous frosted nails tapping against the inside of her arm. "Everything okay?"

Shit, does she suspect anything? "Fine. Why?"

"No reason," Jane replied, resuming what she was working on. "Didn't mean to throw you to the wolves or…..wolf….but men like that get my hackles up. Wouldn't be good for business if I told him where he could stick his chauvinistic, misogynistic attitude."

Karen was intrigued. "So you pushed him off on me?"

"You're tougher than you appear."

_You didn't see me in a holding cell_, Karen thought. "I'll be at lunch."

Checking her watch, she had exactly five minutes to get next door. Fortunately, the convenience store was next door to a deli where she could grab a sandwich. Sliding on her oyster-white rain duster, she tied it around her waist, then grabbed her purse. She avoided going out the back and exited the side entrance which faced the trees buffering the adjacent plaza – making it next door as fast as her chocolate brown pumps would take her. She didn't see Tig nor hear the sound of an idling bike as she approached the meetup spot. Figuring she still had time, she went to open the door to the deli when that voice came out of nowhere and fluttered the hair against her collar. "Order then come 'round back."

For a man who rode a loud machine, he moved as silently as a ninja as she watched him make his way down the plaza sidewalk. Inside, she stood in line for a bit before ordering roast beef with swiss and horse radish on a whole wheat wrap. Grabbing a Fiji water from the cooler, she paid, took her bag and headed out – casually walking down the other end and around back as if she thought she were being followed. In back, next to a dumpster reeking of burnt fryer oil, Tig was waiting next to his bike. Meeting like this in a clandestine fashion felt dangerous, and if a dead body wasn't what brought them together it might even feel a bit wicked. "I'm here," she announced.

Even in three quarter length coat, he gave her the kind of head to toe perusal as if he had x-ray vision even as he cooly lit a cigarette. "Yeah, I see. Listen – goin' outta town in a bit. Be back Thursday afternoon."

Karen looked puzzled. "And you're telling me this because…?"

Taking a deep drag, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. "Here. Only got thirty minutes prepaid on it. Cops come back to the bank, your house, wherever before I get back, you call. Just press 'one'."

Taking the phone, Karen's first thought was to tell him he was being too paranoid, too cautious. But a man who had gone out of his way to get her a prepaid phone to serve as their private line of communication was obviously one not only well-prepared, but had been in this situation before. That last thought sent a chill up her spine.

She pocketed the phone. "Is this going to become a habit, Tig?"

"Till the dust settles. And _no _I don't know when. Sorry you're in the middle, doll. But I don't need this shit any more than you do."

She felt as if she'd been hit in the stomach. "Yeah. Bet you wish you never jumped in."

He blew out a hard breath. "Shit – that ain't what I meant."

"I have to get back."

She cut him off while walking away, only for him to stop her. "Hey!" His tone was insistent and so was the grip on her wrist. "Ain't sorry for what I did." On reflex, Karen gently tugged her arm, causing him to quickly release her. "Look Karen, till the coast's clear, we're in this together. All I need ya to do is tell me you understand."

She wasn't in on what Preston was doing behind her back and he abandoned her faster than a crack-whore tossing her baby in a dumpster. Even though Tig had more at stake to lose since it was his fist which unbalanced James Eisen to fall backwards and split his skull in two, he was making sure she wasn't going to be dragged down with this. This complete stranger wasn't going to leave her to her own devices as her own fiancé had done.

And just as she was his only witness, he was hers. He knew she was there, witnessed the entire thing and conspired to cover up the details of a homicide. Whereas she was completely clueless in what Preston had done, she was one hundred percent guilty here – and this man was privy to every detail. She really had no choice but to go along with this. Follow his lead. Understand.

"Yes…..I understand," she said with reservation.

"Don't sound too convincin'."

"What do you want me to say, Tig? I'm between a rock and a hard place. I don't want to be involved in this anymore, but since you and I are the only ones who know what happened to that guy….….."

She paused, looking away, until she felt a leather-covered finger under her chin, turning her head to face him. "And we're gonna keep it that way," he stressed. "But I gotta know I can trust ya to keep your shit together and stick to the story."

Even as she nodded her hand came up to take his – the cool, soft leather giving way to the warmth and hardness of his fingers underneath. She held onto them for several seconds, her own playing with what were very large rings underneath. Those had to hurt when Tig threw that punch at James, she thought as her eyes met his. That intense blue transformed into a languid stare as she realized she was still playing with his fingers. Dropping his hand as if it caught fire, she caught herself and stepped back. "I will, Tig. I promise."

Nodding, he simultaneously straddled his bike and slid on his sunglasses before giving her one last look. "C'mere."

Why, she thought? She needed to leave, inhale her sandwich and get back to work. Why was he dangling her like this? Still, she found herself moving towards him. "What?"

Reaching out, he hooked his left index finger into the pocket of her rain duster, pulling her towards him to where her leg was flush with his thigh. Slowly, his hand dug inside the pocket and pulled out the phone he just gave her. "I mean it – use it."

The man was intense from head to toe – a fault which Karen couldn't hold against him. He was in full on protection mode – for himself, for his club. And for her. Again, she took the phone from him, if only for that feel of leather between her fingers. "I know – I will."

A long pause lingered between them as either was reluctant to let go first. Karen's brain screamed for her to do so – questioning why she was holding on, why she was still hanging around, why she wasn't hightailing it back to the bank and out of sight where anyone could spot them. As if the danger of the situation was completely consumed in this man, she was hypnotically still without a single, solitary, justifiable reason to do so.

The turn of the key and the rev of the accelerator with is right hand made her break contact – stepping back and away from the straight pipes which sputtered hot exhaust. "I'll let ya know when I'm back."

That was all Tig said before pulling away and out of the back of the plaza, leaving Karen alone to cautiously look around for any prying eyes before walking back to the bank – the pads of her fingers absentmindedly rubbing together at the feel of invisible leather between them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**Three Days Later - Thursday**

The road felt good – three and a half days of hard riding south to meet Portland for the handoff before taking it up north to where the Vancouver charter was waiting for them in Bellingham. Getting guns up and across into Canada was their job – not to mention their specialty as border control agents and various law enforcement had been paid quite well over time to look the other way at the possibility of contraband being filtered into the country.

But if there was one true joy Tig appreciated about a run was coming back from one. Dirty, tired, hungry, thirsty and horny – the cure for all five symptoms awaited him at the clubhouse, though not necessarily in that order. And Nora had a talent for feeding the men with no stress to her weekly manicures other than pressing seven digits to the best catering company in Tacoma.

Pulling into the lot behind the formation led by Hank, Lorca, Stewie and Bully, Tig backed his bike into his appointed spot as Bully dismounted and raised his hands_. "For he shall give his angel's charge over thee, to keep thee safe and in thy ways."_

Tig's body was screaming for a lot of shit right now – and a bible lesson wasn't one of them. "Whatever you say, Bull."

Nor was Tig an idiot to bust the chops of a preacher's son as the enormous enforcer had about seventy five pounds on him. And a hand which weight about five of them slapped Tig on the shoulder. "Book of Psalms, brother. Giving thanks to The One who got us back and forth safely."

Unhooking his duffle, Tig searched inside for a much needed cigarette and shook his head – Bully can credit God. He'd rather credit Harley Davidson.

Inside, the delicious aroma almost made his knees buckle, but a piss and a shower took priority. Pulling the only set of clean clothes he had out of the bag, he scrubbed off days of road and sweat before dressing in one of the empty dorms. Only then was he ready for food, drink and a pussy chaser.

Behind the bar, a young sweetbutt with platinum blonde hair, short black dress and both looking as if they'd been attacked by a razor waited on him. Clean and relaxed, brandy seemed to fit the bill right now. "Shot of Hennessy."

What followed was the look of a deer caught in the headlights as the blonde looked over the array of colored bottles behind her. "Um…_Hennessy_?"

A plate of food was automatically placed in front of him by another young girl with ink black hair and pale gray eyes. After a complimentary pinch on the ass, Tig gave the girl behind the bar an impatient look. "Sometime today, sweetheart."

"Out!"

And with that the blonde was pushed out of the way by another – one far taller and aged in both looks and experience as she had no trouble finding the Hennessy. Flipping over a rocks glass, she expertly poured the sweet liquid. "Sorry about that, Tigger," she said, sliding it in front of him.

"Thanks Pam," he replied, polishing off the contents with one swallow – the warmth spreading through his gut. "Another." If sweetbutts had their own hierarchy within the clubhouse, Pam would be Nora. But whereas Nora would take down any bitch who came between her and Hank with one look, Pam's seniority meant nothing more than duration. And her tenure meant she knew the ropes better than any of them. "Sure she's old enough to be behind a bar?"

Pam did her best to look as enticing as her near-middle-age allowed. A svelte figure, enhanced breasts, capped teeth and a pair of bright blue contacts couldn't disguise the tired look and skin weathered by too many trips to the tanning salon. "Can't be young enough as far as these guys are concerned," she replied with defeat in her voice. Knowing the ropes also meant knowing her place and Pam knew that nothing was certain. Years of servicing the club and its members didn't always garner an ol' lady title and it was only a matter of a ticking clock before you graciously stepped aside and let the younger models take over.

In a way, Tig understood. The club was Pam's family – her home, all she knew, just as it was his. But as a man – and a Son – years and experience were a lot kinder to him than an aging club whore. And other than a snug snatch, he didn't have the patience for incompetent newbies. His glass filled a second time, he wasted no time again knocking it back. Damn that shit was good.

"Another?" Pam asked.

"Spoilin' me, doll."

"Nah," she replied, pouring a third shot then offering him a gleaming look. "Got something else for that."

It was a direct offer – plain and simple. In his month tenure here, he sampled the sweetbutt buffet – Pam included. She may be on her last hurrah, but could suck the chrome off a straight pipe. And the Tig he left behind in Charming – the one Jax ridiculed and berated for being out of control – would've dived face first into a bitch's lap as soon as he crossed the threshold. But being here, being forced to transfer, being sort of the new kid on the block had doused him with a cold pail of humility. He paid more attention to his actions – careful not to screw up his second lease on club life as he tried to contain his own personal cancer from spreading to a dreaded stage three.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Frisk walk over – laptop in his hands. Lifting his fork with one hand, he took Pam's in the other. "Bet ya do, sweetheart." Lemme eat first then got some business. Maybe come look for ya later."

And it was the long-time experience Pam had which told her it was time to shut up and walk away. Stabbing chicken, pasta and potatoes at the same time, Tig shoved it all into his mouth as he swiveled around to meet Frisk who took a seat next to him. "Hank had me dig into that Karen chick."

Swallowing everything at once, Tig chased the food with his brandy. Frisk was Tacoma's version of Juice, minus the idiocy and stupid haircut. "Yeah? What'cha find?"

"Mostly articles from The Seattle Times about the embezzlin' case. Company called Vine & Holdings. She was the account manager for six years. Engaged to the owner."

Oh, that was interesting. Maybe the little cookie was lying – maybe she did know what was going on. "Who?"

"Guy's name is Preston Vine – forty years old. Now servin' five to eight of white collar luxury in FCI Sheridan."

"Sheridan?"

"Oregon."

"And she had nothin' to do with it?"

Frisk shook his head. "Nope. Feds searched everything – files, computer docs, emails, bank transfers. Anything she did was on Preston's order. No correspondence between 'em linkin' any connection of the embezzlin' to her. In other words – she was completely in the dark. Course she was arrested and held until the Feds realized she had nothin' to do with it."

Either Karen was really naïve or this Preston Vine was _that_ slick, Tig thought. "He didn't vouch for 'er?"

"Guess not," Frisk replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Guess he was too worried about his own ass to care about hers."

Tig could say the same thing about Jax – too concerned with whatever Mickey Mouse direction he wanted to take the club in to have him around as a loose cannon. And for all of Jax's douche-baggery, he pulled strings to give Tig a home charter elsewhere. It made his teeth grind having to give the little king props for anything, but if he wanted he could've made Tig's life a living hell by bringing his fate to the table. But Tig quickly realized that Jax's generosity was nothing more than manipulation for covering up the truth as to who _really_ shot Clay.

Still, he was let out of Redwood with his cut, his bike and his ink intact and no repercussions. This poor girl's future husband left her to her own devices which resulted in a record, couple of nights in a holding cell and having to hock her car to pay an attorney. Maybe he should give Jax a big wet one. Wait, fuck that!

"Anything else on 'er?"

"Uh," Frisk began, swirling around the mouse pad, "graduated Kaplan University in ninety nine. Finance major. Last known address was some upscale condo complex called The Lumen right in downtown Seattle. Nothin' on her family. Other than the arrest, she's pretty clean."

"Thanks bro." And instead of resuming eating, Tig thought. Shit, why was he even caring? He was back, comfortable, showered, hot food in front of him, liquored up and had a potential blowjob on the horizon. Still, he wondered if everything had died down or if the redhead had a visitor she forgot to call him about. Plus he'd be lying if he wasn't curious on whatever Frisk couldn't find out.

He looked around - everyone else who came in from the road was either eating drinking or entertaining a warm body on their lap. Except Hank – who was quietly sitting at a table with his wife. Guy had some serious health shit to deal with and knew the trip took a bit of a toll on him, but he looked…content – kind of the way Clay and Gemma looked before things went south with them. The mood of the Tacoma clubhouse was a lot different from Redwood and in just a month Tig realized that maybe really did do him a favor – getting him away from all the fucked up drama back in Charming.

Pushing a half full plate away, he finished the remains of his third brandy then grabbed his keys. He spotted Pam leaning against the wall, watching him leave, knowing that whatever she had in mind was on hold.

**~A~**

"All set miss."

After three days of arranging another delivery date after work hours, Karen finally had a new bed. And after handing the sneering delivery guys a generous tip, they took off – fast. Maybe they were late for another delivery. Maybe they didn't care for the fact they had climb up the stairs of a townhouse condo with a queen-sized box spring, mattress, frame and a carved, oak foot and headboard. Didn't matter, she thought as she climbed the stairs back up to her place with exuberance. Finally could cease sleeping on the stiff leather sectional in the living room.

Removing her dusty-peach cardigan, she acted like a little kid on Christmas morning as she hopped barefoot in shorts and a camisole to her bedroom – wanting to just flop on the brand new mattress and feel the coolness of the material against her bare arms and legs.

And stopped cold.

"What the….?" Amongst the unassembled frame and strewn in pieces was a sarcastic note pinned to the mattress still wrapped in plastic and flush against the wall. She thought of the tip she just gave them and ripped the note off. "_Assholes!"_ she screamed, dashing back down the stairs to find the delivery truck long gone. Out of breath and pissed, she looked down at the note. '_That's for dogging us last week, bitch.'_

Oh, this delivery company was going to get the fucking biggest customer complaint they ever heard to where she hoped those two idiots would come crawling back on their hands and knees to put her bed together. She was so angry that she barely felt the chill of the early evening.

Or the sound of a motorcycle pulling up behind her.

"What'cha up to, doll?"

He caught her off-guard – not to mention barely dressed. He said he'd be back this afternoon, but didn't figure he'd pay her a visit. Crossing her arms about her, she shook her head. "Just…nothing. What're you doing here?"

He took his time unbuckling his helmet and dismounting then walked over to her. "Never heard from ya."

"No need to call. No one else came by the bank to talk to us. Guess that's good news."

"Maybe," he shrugged, his eyes trying to take in what her arms covered. Then his eyes narrowed as he snatched the note out of her hand. "What the hell….?"

She went to take it from him. "Tig, give me that….."

"Where'd this come from?" His tone was insistent.

She sighed heavily. "The assholes who just delivered my bed. Took off – with my forty dollar tip – without even assembling it. Guess they were pissed about the no-show last Friday."

He stared at the note, then at her, then back at the note again before crumbling it in his hand. "Son of a bitch," he quietly muttered, heading up towards the stairs. Wait….what, was he going…..?

"Tig, stop," she called out, following him up the stairs to her place. "Wait," she continued, as she watched him search for her room. "You can't just…."

"Can you just be quiet for a moment?"

She clamped her mouth shut as he surveyed the disaster in her room. After a few moments he removed his gloves, vest and….was that a holster strapped to his chest? "What're you doing?"

Dropping his stuff on the floor, he began to unbutton his shirt. "Get me some tools, doll."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** **All Tig & Karen and from her POV. Lot of backstory filled in as well as we're heading into the intrigue/drama. Seeing how Tig has been passed over for SAA by Jax twice and is now pretty much his lap dog, I'm writing Tig in that frame of mind rather than the crazy, lovable freak from the first couple of seasons because I think he's at a serious impasse in his life right now. I want this story to explore the psyche of someone in his position and how he deals with it. And, of course, having him encounter a woman who pretty much has to rebuild her own life is a nice yin to his yang!**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter Seven**

A single woman didn't exactly have a Home Depot worthy toolbox, but Karen was able to scrounge up the basics. Phillips and flat head screwdriver, two sets of pliers and a hammer – just in case – stood upright in a cabinet under the sink in an old coffee can.

Crossing her living room, she grabbed her peach cardigan from where she had flung it and tossed it on – feeling just a bit too exposed in front of a man she hardly knew. He, on the other hand, had no qualms about stripping down as a dark blue shirt joined his leather vest and gun holster on the floor of her bedroom. Standing in the doorway, she stared at his naked back – tattoos covering both his upper arms. From behind, he didn't look as old as she assumed him to be. A pair of dark jeans was all that covered his body which was pretty fit. Sensing her staring, he turned around from where he was surveying the mess- her eyes targeting the light sprinkling of salt and pepper hair on his chest rather than his outstretched hand. "What'cha find, doll?"

"Oh…..here," she replied, handing the can to him. "It's all I have. Hope it's enough."

Loudly, he fished through the coffee can while she watched. There was something about a man's hands which intrigued her and their condition told her a lot. Preston had no problem indulging his metro-sexuality with monthly cuticle, buff and shine treatments. His hands were always smooth, callous free with clean nails trimmed and filed to a perfect square. His only adornments were a diamond pinkie ring with the letter _'P'_ and an overly expensive Swiss Army watch.

Tig wasn't shy about rings – silver, chunky and probably painful to anyone on the receiving end of a punch – like James Eisen. One was a large skull which pretty much mirrored what looked like a reaper on his right arm while leather and metal cuffs wrapped both wrists. His hands looked like they rarely saw soap and water let alone a manicurist as he pulled out a Phillip's head. "This should do."

"You don't have to do this," she told him.

A pair of eyes which probably made up for any other attractive quality he may have lacked regarded her. "Wanna sleep on the couch another night?"

"No. I want to track down those assholes who took my money and left me with this."

"Don't worry about it" he said, crouching down to begin assembling the metal frame. He then looked back at her. "Wouldn't have any beer, would ya?"

She shook her head, trying to think of what her fridge contained. The market was close, but couldn't walk from it with no more than two, sturdy eco-bags full of groceries. "I have diet Pepsi, bottled water…." His nose wrinkled as he fumbled with a bag of screws, until she remembered. "Hold on."

She went back to the kitchen and pulled open an upper cabinet – a half bottle of Captain Morgan from an attempt to make rum balls for a teller who left a few weeks ago. Somehow Tig didn't seem the soda or water type and this was the hardest she had to offer. Walking back in the bedroom, she held up the bottle. "This?"

Crouching down to assess the parts, he laughed. "Better than nothin'. Bring me a glass."

Back to the kitchen she disappeared and returned with a glass. Taking it from her, Tig poured a healthy amount of rum into it. But instead of drinking it, he handed it to her. "Think ya need this as much as I do."

Karen reluctantly took the glass. "I can add some ice and Pepsi to it…"

"Drink it straight, doll," he cut her off then took a swig from the bottle. "You'll forget about your shitty day."

Giving into a 'why not' shrug she took a sip of the warm liquid, wincing a bit as she felt it burn down her throat. He gave her an amused look, chuckling as he practically chugged the bottle – obviously numb to the effects of the alcohol.

"Guess I'll just watch some t.v.," she said.

"Nah, you're gonna park it right there," he said pointing to the floor. "May need ya to assist."

"Oh, sure," she replied, sliding down the wall until she sat cross-legged on the floor. As she slowly sipped the rum, she watched him lay out the bed's framework. The silence between them was as loud as the shuffling of tools and metal parts. "Want me to put on some music?"

"Nope."

"How about if I….?"

"How 'bout ya tellin' me what happened back in Seattle?"

It was as pointed, direct and completely unexpected. In all honesty, Karen wanted to leave what happened in Seattle _back_ in Seattle. She gave him the basic outline – now he wanted the entire report. "I'd rather not."

"Ain't a choice, sweetheart," he told her, pointing a screwdriver to make his point. "What happened last Friday's now a club matter which you're stuck in. You got past shit that's gonna rise up, I wanna know."

"I told you it was all dropped."

"_What_ was dropped?"

"_Why_ do you need to know?"

She stood up – the anger in her voice apparent. He dropped what he was doing and met her halfway for which Karen had nowhere to go except back up against the wall. "All got shit we're ashamed of, doll. Let's just say I wanna be square on what the newspaper reported."

He turned and went back to work, leaving her there staring into her glass. Biting the bullet, she gulped down the remaining rum, needing the distraction of the burning sensation as she slid back down to a sitting position. "Seven years ago I was working for a mortgage company doing consulting and refinancing. Same place I'd been since interning after college. Preston was a client – had just put a deposit down on a condo. I worked with him on his mortgage, so I spent a lot of time talking to him. Told me about his financial planning firm and how he was looking to get into securities investments. Long story short, he wound up stealing me away. Over the years we built up a pretty extensive client list – investing their life savings to where they'd get the best return. Preston really relied on me and always looked to me for suggestions or advice. That is – up until 3 years ago."

Pausing after turning the last screw to secure the base frame, Tig stood up and looked at her. "Hand me those pliers."

She got up herself and got them for him, her eyes not wanting to meet his because of the shame she was feeling having to retell this story. Instead, she concentrated on the light sheen of sweat covering his shoulders. "What happened three years ago?"

Maybe she needed the distraction of the story to not stare at him, she thought. Clearing her throat, she went back to her spot on the floor. "Things really boomed. The company was at its height. Had two hundred clients, but Preston had been dealing with a freelance consulter who handled the investing while I was doing basic account management – set up, billing, correspondence. Was pretty much a glorified bookkeeper/secretary, but I liked the job and was paid well. Really well."

"Guess that's why you could afford some high fallutin' place like The Lumen."

That stunned her. "How…?"

"Old news articles," he cut her off. "Did my own diggin'. But I wanna know what the papers didn't say."

A wave of discomfort washed over Karen – knowing this man, this biker, this stranger who intervened an attack on her which resulted in a dead body had looked into her. But the entire situation had been splattered all over The Seattle Times – complete with a good amount of personal information on her – so he really didn't have to dig that deep.

"Yeah – it was. I was young, single and was making a lot of money. And so was Preston – moreso. And that's when we started to become…close. Our relationship was lavish – Preston didn't blink an eye peeling off hundred dollar bills for a bottle of champagne, or pulling me into a jewelry store right off the street to buy me a pair of diamond earrings on the spot, or arranging private helicopter rides to a bistro in Vancouver while on business or a shopping spree in San Francisco. There wasn't anything he wouldn't buy me – designer clothes, furniture, weekend spa trips – and eventually, a four carat engagement ring."

Tig continued to work while he listened – looking unimpressed as he paused when she did. "Compensatin' for other shit, maybe?"

Karen didn't know if it was the rum or the fact that Tig came right out and questioned Preston's manhood. Yeah, they had sex. It was good. Well, alright, but the money blinded it. Or, made it appear better than it was. "That's not part of this discussion."

He shrugged with a cocky smirk. "Pretty much answers it. So how'd the high life tumble down?"

Tumble down? More like a sky-dive from twenty thousand feet was accurate. "I guess I was too caught up in it to notice anything out of the ordinary. I continued doing my watered down job while Preston controlled everything else. Began taking trips to Europe, back up to Vancouver, the islands, etc. Sometimes I went with him, sometimes he insisted I didn't – instead pacifying me by mentioning the house we're going to build or the Tuscany honeymoon he was planning." Momentarily, she halted to sigh heavily. "I was too blind to realize it was nothing but a smoke screen."

She was too busy re-telling the story that she hadn't noticed Tig struggling with the box spring until he plopped it with a loud thud onto the frame. "Wow," she said, glad to break away from her self-pity. "That was…..fast."

Again, he shrugged – completely unaffected by the praise. "Work on cars for a livin', sweetheart. Piece of cake."

That explained his hands – a man who worked hard with them rather than having them be some pampered display to show off his adornments. Possessions which she got sucked into right along with him rather than have them be some red flag. And it took losing all those possessions – selling her condo, hocking jewelry, consigning designer accessories, even getting rid of her car to learn a hard lesson. Those things could be regained, but reinstating a reputation forever tarnished in the archives of The Seattle Times had to be earned back. "I really appreciate this, Tig." Really, she did. He was obviously low maintenance, putting her bed together in exchange for a half bottle of rum. With it beginning to get dark outside, she looked at the clock as he began to secure the footboard. "Can I make you something to eat?"

Lying on the floor on his back, he strained to tighten a screw with a pair of pliers. "What'cha got?"

What _did _she have – again, her trips to the market were contained to how much she could carry on a walk back up a steep street. "Let me see." Back into the kitchen, she flung open the fridge. Amid the soda and water were the usual staples – tub of margarine, condiments, salad fixings, fat free half and half, juice, turkey, yogurt, cottage cheese – single-gal-on-a-budget stuff. The bottom shelf had a small package of chop meat for the greasy cheeseburger she was planning for tomorrow night to go with some On Demand movie, but didn't think a man like Tig would want a burger on healthy, 12-grain bread. Pulling the meat out, she opened the cabinet and behind the Kashi cereal and container of oatmeal was a box of four-cheese Hamburger Helper she'd bought during that time of the month when her salt and cheese cravings were at an all-time high.

Pulling out a pan, she cooked up the beef, added milk, water and contents of the box until it thickened into an artery-hardening mess. Spooning a good amount into a plate, she grabbed a fork and napkin and brought in into him – just as he plopped the mattress on top of the finished product. "All done."

The bed was beautiful, taking up a good portion of a room half the size of the bedroom in her Seattle condo. The carvings in the foot and headboard were deep, with burnt black shading in some areas. She couldn't contain a smile as she walked the extended plate out to him. "Nothing says 'thank you' like a plate of Hamburger Helper," she mused.

"Looks good," he said, digging his fork right into it.

She left to him to eat and headed to the bathroom – pulling the brand new set of queen-sized sheets she already washed and dried as well as a matching comforter set out of the linen closet. Heading back, she found him practically licking the plate before polishing off the rest of the rum. There was something about a hungry, hard-drinking, half-naked man who just put a large piece of furniture together with his bare hands that was sort of…hot. For a moment, Karen let that replace the true reason this man currently in her life. And in her bedroom. "There's more."

"You eat yet?" he asked.

She began to put the pillow cases on. "I'm good," she said, dropping the linens on the mattress and holding her hand out for the plate. "Want the rest?"

"Sure. Bathroom, doll?"

She pointed. "Down the hall, first door on the left. Towels in the closet if you want to wash up."

Grabbing his stuff off the floor, he went one way while she went the other. Turning the burner on, she heated up what remained of the Hamburger Helper. After scraping what remained into the plate, she grabbed a clean fork and napkin just as Tig came in. Blue shirt half buttoned under his leather vest with the holster peeking out, she immediately caught a whiff of Dove soap. "All yours," she said, pointing to the waiting plate on the counter.

"Thanks," he said, beginning to scoff it down almost as quickly he did the first plate. "How 'about finishin' your story."

She hoped he'd forget, because she certainly did – especially where she left off. "Um, let's see," she began, as she remembered. "Back in October we got hit with a surprise audit. Something must've slipped up – a client maybe realized their dwindling account wasn't because of 'bad investment decisions' as Preston justified them to be. But it wasn't just some come in, sit down and pull out your files audit. It was more of a 'step away from the computer and wait in the other room while we confiscate everything' sting. Preston just happened to be in Vancouver at the time so I was left to deal with it."

"Third time ya mentioned 'im in Vancouver," Tig interrupted. "What was he doin' there?"

Karen shook her head. "I have no idea. He was starting to get cryptic about his trips around then. Anyway, by the time he was brought back here, they'd found so much incriminating evidence that he was taken immediately into custody. And when the police discovered our relationship, they got a search warrant for my place. Of course, seeing where I lived, the car I drove, the expensive clothes in my closet, I was brought in on possible conspiracy charges. By then, Preston was being held without bail and knew they had me, but it took an attorney to convince the police to release me rather than Preston coming forward to say I had nothing to do with it. It took several weeks and a lot of questioning before it was determined I was innocent in all this. By then the papers had smeared me, my parents couldn't even look at me and was saddled with a large legal bill."

Finishing the last forkful, Tig tossed the dish on the counter. "You ever see 'im again?"

"At his trial. I had to testify. He couldn't even look me in the eye. He knew he bailed on me when all I was guilty of was being associated with the wrong person."

He gave her a look as if he understood what that felt like. "Yeah." It was barely audible as he looked around the kitchen.

"Tig?"

"What?"

"Thank you – again. You didn't," she got caught up in a weird emotional moment, "have to."

He walked over to stand close. Too close. Nah, I didn't."

The nerve endings under her skin stood on edge. He was a man who showed her kindness, but was also a man whom she eluded the cops with. She couldn't let outward deeds cover up what was on the inside – she already made that mistake. She backed up to create some space – her bottom hitting the edge of the kitchen table when she spotted her purse hanging on the edge of the chair. "Oh, here," she said, opening it up and pulling out the flip phone. "You can have this back."

He shook his head. "Keep it."

"But….."

"I said keep it," he repeated sternly. "Bein' quiet don't mean it's over."

That thought caused a shudder in her sigh. "Was hoping it was. Papers and news have been quiet. It'll be a week tomorrow."

"And that ain't enough time for it to be blown over. Wait, Karen. Wait, keep quiet and…?"

The end of that question hung in the air for her to answer. "Call."

He again moved forward, this time putting a hand behind her head. "Atta girl." And for a while they just stared while Karen held her breath the entire time. Jesus, was he going to kiss her? And was she just standing there like a statue waiting for it to happen? _Move, Karen, move. What's wrong with you?_ But instead, his lips pressed on the edge of her hairline in a platonic fashion. For some reason, she grinned. He just helped her out big time, yet he was trying to comfort her in some strange way. When he straightened, he must've seen the perplexed look on her face as he spun around. "Thanks again for dinner."

"Lucky I had something."

Again, he looked at her, fixing his belt then running a hand through his unruly hair. It's like he was figuring out something to say until he started towards the door. "Gotta go."

"Yeah, sure," she awkwardly replied.

She followed him until he stopped by a side table near the door. On it was the ticket from the delivery company. His hand fell on it until he crumbled it in half to pick up. "'I'll bring it back."

Why was he taking it? Was he looking for another reason to come back? "Why do you want it?"

He pocketed it inside his leather vest then gave her a serious look. "You really wanna know?"

"I'm not sure."

"Then don't ask."

And with that he was down the stairs and out the door. Karen didn't move until she heard the sound of his bike start up and take off. Only then did she walk around the condo and closed the blinds as night was beginning to settle in. The last stop was her bedroom – the large, oak carved bed sitting in the center. Once the blinds were closed, she scooted on the bed – the cool, stiffness of the new mattress nipping the back of her thighs.

Pushing the bedding out of the way, she laid down on the bare mattress – grabbing a pillow for her head. She only planned to close her eyes for a moment or two – if only to process the weirdness which just transpired the last few hours.

She slept straight through till morning.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

What the fuck's getting into him?

After a restless night's sleep where he dreamt of Jax telling him he was wasting his time, Tig woke with the heel of his hand pressed tightly against his eyes. A little more than a month in and he felt the reason for his purpose changing. While he was always about the club, he was experiencing a shift in how he approached things. No longer a twitchy finger on a trigger, Tig was starting to assimilate himself into the tight, low-key unit of Tacoma.

And it was starting to affect more than his thought process.

Some things still didn't change. He never went home after Karen's last night – instead taking a much needed detour back to the clubhouse. Pam was gone and the pickings were sparse, but the stupid little bartender was still around and trying too hard to be noticed. At that point, Tig wasn't choosy and hoped her blowjob skills were better than her bartending ones. And after dispensing his pent-up frustration down her throat, he left her in one of the backroom, headed behind the bar and grabbed the bottle of Hennessy all to himself.

After polishing off half of it, he finally took in surroundings – a prospect, a young patch named Six and some hangarounds. He immediately capped the bottle, suddenly feeling ill. What the heck was he doing? He wasn't twenty anymore. Hell, he wasn't even thirty or forty. He had a home to go to and his own bed – which made him think of the one he just put together with his own hands. Suddenly feeling out of place, he hoped the cool, damp Washington night air sobered him enough to ride home.

And the effects of all that was like a weight on his head the next morning as he struggled to wake up. In exactly one week he performed two good Samaritan deeds for the same female – the first one being what brought him around last night. In a world where he lived by the Brains Before Bullets code, Tig had developed a bad habit of doing before thinking. And last night at Karen's he did just that when he offered to put the poor chick's bed together. At least he got dinner and a backstory out of her. And what a story it was – it almost made him feel like prick when he griped about being exiled to the land where the sun don't fucking shine. But just like he's doing here, Karen's just trying to make the best of a shitty situation. He had to give her props for that.

Sitting up, he opened and closed his right hand as he had taken the luxury of power tools for granted. He was too young for his accelerator hand to crap out ala Clay. Checking the clock it was almost ten. Church was at noon to figure out everything around Hank's impending surgery. He hadn't forgotten the talk they had last Saturday, and possible shift in seats and what it meant to him.

"_if for some reason this shit goes south….I gotta step down. It'll be voted on, but Lorca'll most likely take the gavel. Stewie will likely be V.P. Which means we'll need a new sergeant."_

How sick was the irony of someone getting killed to have his SAA patched stripped while another has to possibly die for him to get it back?

After a shower and a cup of coffee, Tig walked out to sit on his front step. Tacoma wasn't as quiet as Charming and his street was no different. His next door neighbor was some dude who rarely went anywhere whose front lawn was littered with toys, broken down lawn furniture, gardening tools and three – yes three – cars – which he'd been tinkering on the last couple of weeks. Tig didn't care – the guy kept to himself and was quiet at night when it counted.

Putting his cup down on the cement stoop, he pulled out a smoke – only for a low rumbling of thunder and a dark cloud thickening above halting him from lighting it. "Jesus Christ," he muttered as he picked himself up and went inside. Fucking-ass weather! Nothing was more splendid than riding in a downpour – until he thought of Karen and realized she had to walk in this shit.

Having spent more time than he cared to thinking about his feelings, he went back inside, grabbed his cut, gloves, keys and wallet to head out. Better an hour early than hydroplaning in a monsoon.

**~A~**

The rain was hard and heavy and Karen wished she had brought lunch with her. It was also Friday and payday which meant no amount of rain was going to keep the afternoon rush down. Myra and Andrea both anticipated the weather and brown-bagged it, but after almost over-sleeping on her brand new unmade bed, Karen had just enough time to shower, dress, throw on something she hoped matched then dash down the street – detouring to the deli for coffee and a bagel. She'd rather be late than be without coffee.

The busy morning didn't allow her to eat so her grumbling stomach would have to be satisfied with only the bagel for lunch until four thirty. Damn, she only meant to lay her head down for a moment or two last night and wound up sleeping straight through till seven thirty. But even on a bare mattress, she had her first, full, comfortable night's sleep than on a leather couch. And the empty Captain Morgan's bottle, dirty dish and pan crusted with leftover Hamburger Helper in the sink reminded her of who was responsible for her deep slumber.

Around one she went back to the break room to toast her bagel, smeared it with a bit of butter then got a cup of water from the cooler. She had just sat down, kicked off her plum-colored t-straps and grabbed the Best/Worst Swimsuit Bodies edition of Star Magazine and taken a bite when Jane popped in. "Karen?" was all she said with a crook of her finger.

"What?" she replied, getting up and going over to her.

"That investigator is here – wants to speak to you again," Jane said in a low voice.

Whatever piece of bagel Karen swallowed just rose to her throat to mix with bile. "With…._me_? He specifically said _me_?" Damn, did she sound guilty?

"Probably because you were the last to see him. Don't worry – I already read him the riot act. Ten minutes, then I need you back on the floor."

Jane had a way of mixing her mother-hen-ish qualities with her iron-fisted manager persona. "Thanks,"

Karen headed to one of the empty offices where the investigator who had shown up that Saturday afternoon was standing waiting for her. "Miss Spencer?"

"Yes. How can I help you?"

He motioned for her to sit in one of the two chairs as he took the other. "Just want to go over a few details we discussed last Saturday." He reached inside his raincoat pocket and pulled out his flip pad and pen. "Especially the time. Now you stated Mister Eisen came into the bank to try to cash a check a little before three p.m.?"

She nodded. "Yes, that's correct. I was just about to leave early for the day myself when Ms. Marsh asked that I take him as my last customer before leaving."

"Mmm, hmm," he acknowledged as he scribbled. "And you also stated he gave you a hard time."

"He tried to cash a check without proof of an account. That's against policy. He got upset I wouldn't give in, snatched his check away and left."

"Out which entrance?"

"The side which leads to the parking lot in back."

"And you left right afterwards?"

_Why is he asking all this again_, Karen thought to herself. "I just had Myra cash my check before I left."

"And which entrance did you leave by?"

Okay, now she was getting a little bothered. "Excuse me, officer. Why does which door I used to leave have anything to do with this man's death?"

He didn't answer, but rather asked another question. "Miss Spencer…?"

"Karen – please."

"Karen," he corrected, "why did you leave early that day?"

"I was meeting a delivery at my house."

"Mmm, hmm," he hummed again as he jotted down more notes. "A new bed?"

She looked surprised. "How did you…..?"

"Your boss, Miss Marsh…."

"_Ms_. Marsh," Karen corrected, almost sarcastically.

The investigator chuckled. "Sorry – I'm not doing so well today with names."

"Better that I corrected you than her," Karen replied, hoping the levity would lighten the tension. "She told you?"

"Yes, she did. Is that a problem?"

"No, not at all." _As a matter of fact it's a big fucking problem because I never made it home to meet the delivery._

"So," he continued, "you waited on Mister Eisen, he left, you got your check cashed, you left through the….?"

"Front door," she lied_. Oh, God please don't let this come back to bite me because I have nothing left to chew on._

"And no one else came in between Mister Eisen and you leaving?"

He already knew the answer to that question and it was disclosed during the initial questioning on Saturday. To deny it now would be harmful. "Just someone looking to open a safety deposit box, but I told him Ms. Marsh does those and he would have to come back on Monday."

"Right," he said, flipping back a few pages in his notebook. "_A man dressed like a biker_, which is what your co-worker described. He left immediately?"

"Yes."

"Out the front door?"

Again, with the door. "Yes."

"Then you left right afterwards – out the front door?"

Now she was getting more pissed than nervous. "Yes. Again, why does this matter?"

Sneaking a peek out of the office, he noticed Jane giving them the evil eye as he put his flip pad and pen away. "Karen we have a witness who heard voices arguing back and forth – a man and a woman - at the back lot of the bank around the time which coincides with Mister Eisen's time of death. This witness was able to see the top of the woman's head – describing her hair as 'dark red'." He gave her hair a once over. "Like yours."

It was all Karen could do to not vomit. _"What?_ You…..you think I had something to do with this?"

"And the witness also heard a motorcycle pulling out of the lot as well."

This wasn't happening. This just was _not _happening. She couldn't have this in her life which she's been slowly trying to rebuild. The best thing right now was to act as ignorant and direct as possible. "Officer – exactly what are you trying to say?"

He held his hands up. "I'm just trying to account for whereabouts, that's all. You said you left the bank, I'm going to guestimate, a little after three pm to meet a delivery at your house. I understand you live right up the street and walk to work, correct?"

Karen was tasting that bile-riddled bagel in her throat. "Yes, that's correct?"

"Did you happen to cross the parking lot on your walk home…..hear a motorcycle or see that biker who came in?"

Yes, yes and hell yes, but, unlike being questioned in Preston's embezzlement scam, Karen could not tell the truth. "No, officer. I did not."

Again, he looked out the door where Karen saw Jane shooting daggers. He stood up and she followed suit. "Okay, Karen. Thank you for your time."

"Absolutely."

He suddenly stopped on his walk out and spun around. "The company who delivered your bed – you don't have a problem with me confirming the delivery was made and that you were present for it."

Of course she had a problem with it. A big, huge fucking problem – one which those asshole delivery guys would take great joy in making a hundred times worse. "Not at all. I don't recall their name off the top of my head." _Nor do I have the delivery ticket which states they delivered it yesterday instead of last Friday since Tig took it for reasons I don't care to know about._

"No problem," he said, handing her his card. "Call me when you have it."

She kept her hand from crumbling the card. "I will."

Tipping his head politely, he left the bank just as she rethought her answer. _'I can't,"_ she murmured to herself. She couldn't call this information in.

But remembering she was in possession of a flip phone with prepaid minutes, she knew who she had to call instead.

**~A~**

The room was evidence that men were inside – hard living, hard riding, hard loving men who smoked and drank equally hard. But even the toughest exteriors couldn't hide the their emotion when talk centered around 'The Big C'

"First week of June, boys," Hank announced his scheduled surgery. "That's less than two weeks away.  
Bein' done laproscopically then headin' right into radiation. And that's all I'm gonna talk on this subject cuz I ain't wastin' my time on shit whose ass I'm gonna kick – we square?"

"Amen, brother," Bully was the first to acknowledge, followed by several grunts and whoops of approval.

Surrounded by his own cloud of smoke, Tig leaned back in his chair and took in the table. He could tell these men were worried about their boss. All these years he thought Redwood was a tight, knit family unit, but greed, deception and lies unraveled it quicker than a hot fuck. Maybe Tacoma never experienced the shit Charming did – the white hate, the Mexican stand-offs, the explosions, kidnappings, rapes, execution-style killings – those things both numbed and haunted Tig. Tacoma had their moments, but he was sure they hadn't seen half the shit the mother charter had seen. Laid back, no high drama and everything running like a well-oiled machine could be very good, but sometimes you needed a chink in the armor to see what kind of tough stuff you're made of.

"Not sure how long I'll be out of commission," Hank continued. "That don't mean fuckin' around either. Lorca's got the gavel while I'm out – Stewie's number two. Everyone else, fall in line and business as usual." He turned to Donut who was secretary. "What's upcomin'?"

"Next run'll probably be end of July, accordin' to Portland's schedule. Got the MS ride with Seattle and Bellevue on the twenty-fifth. Serge called – his place is all set for the grand opening next weekend. Gonna need some muscle."

"High stakes gamblin' usually does," Hank replied. "Think I'll take a ride and check the place out." He looked down at Tig. "What say you, brother? Wanna go with and see how this operation works?"

"Love to, pres," he replied.

"A'ight, let's schedule this shit accordingly, shall we gentlemen?" Hank said, banging the gavel. "Go on, get outta here."

Tig walked out last, wanting a moment alone with Hank. "Can I ask ya something?"

"Shoot?"

He pulled a piece of paper out of his cut. "Know this company?"

Hank looked at the paper. "The Moving Crew," he read off the paper. "Shit, yeah, I know 'em. Two douche-putzes who think all ya have to do to have a movin' business is buy a truck. Fucktards delivered a new desk for Nora in the office. Put it together like shit."

"Least they did," Tig said.

Hank sat back looking intrigued. "They screw somethin' up for ya?"

Tig shook his head. "Nah –not me. That chick."

Hank's eyes lit up. "Yeah? You makin' regular visits now?"

"Nothin' like that. Helped her out last night. They screwed her over."

Folding his arms, Hank studied him quietly for a moment. "And you wanna make it right?"

"I wanna get the forty dollar tip back she gave those worthless dicks."

"You know," Hank began, rubbing his chin, "I never did get back at those guys for the desk. And they were gone before Nora could chew 'em out – lucky for them." He got up, took the delivery ticket and studied it. "Think we can make a stop on the way back from Serge's. I could use a little action before my shit goes under the knife."

Laughing, Tig exited church and retrieved his cell out of the basket – noticing he had a missed call from the phone he gave Karen. "Shit," he murmured, playing the message back once then twice then flagged Hank down. "Brother, I think we're gonna need to take more than just that forty bucks from those guys."


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you all again for reading and supporting this story. It's really coming together quite nicely and love exploring Tig in a different setting. Your feedback, as always, is very much appreciated. And after a week dealing with a death in the family, getting back to my AU was a much needed respite. I hope to get one more chapter out next week before leaving for vacation on the 25th where I'll be bringing my laptop and hope to churn out several more chapters as well. I want to put a cap on the number of chapters, but I usually fail miserably when I do that so I'm just going to indulge the muse and let it flow at will - thanks to the ladies in our little circle who have taught me to do that.**

**Thanks again so much and enjoy!**

**Chapter 9**

The lights dim, the television playing soft rock in the back on one of the nine hundred cable channels and wrapped in polka-dot pajama pants, jersey top and an afghan, Karen reached for another tissue to blow her runny nose. This is what happens when you walk back and forth to work in damp, inclement weather. Sooner or later, it's bound to catch up with you. And this hit her quick – though lack of proper nutrition that day combined with the stress of being questioned _and_ thought to have something to do with James Eisen's death probably helped it along.

Popping another pre-cold lozenger, she sipped a hot cup of lemon-honey tea then sunk deeply into the leather sofa. Even in her mushy condition, her brain didn't forget what happened today. On the coffee table were both cell phones – hers with the investigators card right next to it and the one Tig gave her to which he had called back almost immediately after her frantic message with a cryptic, _"don't do anything until you hear from me first"_ order. She had no problem with that. Right now she didn't want to do a thing – except go back in time one week and _not _cross that back lot. It's as if her life went from bad to worse – until her own cell phone rang. Seeing the number on the display, it really did get worse. "Hi mom," she answered, trying to sound excited.

"_What's wrong – you sound sick,"_ her mother asked on the other end.

Karen hated this – hated these once a week calls with her mother which were filled with backhanded judgements, opinions and advice. Even though she was proven completely innocent in Preston Vine's embezzlement scandal, the the irreparable damage to her reputation had been done to her name – her parent's name – in every Seattle Times related article. Those very same parents now had to live with the same shame – and after all these months, they still had a hard time letting go. "Just feeling a bit under the weather – nothing serious," she replied.

"_Maybe if you didn't sell your car you wouldn't have to walk and wait at bus stops in this weather, Karen,"_ her mother dug.

"Maybe if my legal fees for something I didn't do would magically disappeared, I wouldn't have had to," Karen dug right back.

"_I still don't understand why you had to buy another condo_,"her mother continued rail. _"You could've found a nice apartment and kept your car."_

Her pounding headache had nothing to do with the pressure building up in her sinuses. "Did you call to rehash this for the twentieth time, mom? I don't want to discuss it anymore. My life. My decision."

A surrendering sigh on the other end. "_Yes – your life."_

Karen wanted nothing but to hang up because every weekly phone call did nothing but take her backwards. "What's up, mom?" The faster she got to it the faster the phone call would end.

"_Nothing – just my weekly call. It was supposed to be your turn this week, but you must've forgotten."_

_Any other gripes, mother_? Karen thought to herself. And with the current drama in her life, her weekly call to Seattle was at the bottom of her 'to do' list. "Yeah, sorry. Been busy. Got my bed delivered finally."

"_Bed? You went and blew money on a bed when you need a car?"_

"How's dad?" she changed the subject – quick.

"_Fine. Tired. Keeps that hardware store open from six until nine. So….heard from Charles?"_

And here's the other point of contention between them. "Couple of weeks ago I checked in."

"_And…?"_

"And…..why don't you call him yourself and find out, mom?"

"_No thank you. He knows where he stands with me."_

All along Karen thought she'd regain the title of 'black sheep of the family' after being booked, printed and jailed back in Seattle, but her younger brother taking off to Montreal to marry his boyfriend knocked her out of the competiton. "Get over it, mom. He's happy."

"_And I suppose I'm to believe you're happy too?"_

Right now, with a burgeoning head cold, being questioned about a dead body and in collusion with a biker over it, _happy _was not in her vocabulary at the moment. "Mom?"

"_Yes?"_

"I'm fine. I'm settled. And…I'm coping. But right now my head's about to explode."

"_Okay, fine. I'll let you go."_

"Say hi to dad for me and that I'll give a ring Sunday night to talk to him."

"_Hopefully you'll remember this time."_

"Goodbye, mom."

Karen couldn't press the '_End Call'_ button soon enough. Now she just waited for the '_Incoming Call'_ to flash on the other phone.

**~A~**

If you were a 'man's man', this was the place to be one.

On the upper level, La Scolienta was a place for families to gather and eat. Muraled walls depicting the deep waters of Venice and the breathtaking scenery of Tuscany, brass sconces giving off soft light, the plucking of mandolins and guitars coming out of the speakers, tables covered in spotless white cloths, matching napkins and dinnerware and the aroma of espresso, garlic and tomato sauce permeated the dining room.

The real action, however, was what went on below the classic Italian restaurant.

After being offered a complimentary espresso with a healthy shot of Sambuca, Serge led Hank and Tig to a discreetly camaflauged door in the backroom. Behind it, a narrow, cement stairwell led to a carefully, constructed underground gambling operation. At first glance, Tig almost choked on the strong coffee when he saw how large the setup was – the length of it almost as long as the T-M parking lot and as wide as the clubhouse. "Holy shit," he said as he took in the numerous gaming tables through the haze of sweet cigar smoke. Only five in the afternoon and they had a full house even before the first early bird diner walked through the doors upstairs.

"Pick your poison, gentlemen," Serge said waving his hand around. "Craps, blackjack, poker, roulette, big six – and if you've got serious cash to burn, Baccarat. Just a little 'test run' before the grand opening."

Hank looked around well-pleased. "I see our little 'donation' moved things along. How long you estimate before seein' a return?"

"Should be able to pay the Sons back in full by end of summer," Serge said. "And between the house's cut and the hefty five hundred dollar admission, you'll be making a nice, passive, silent-partner fee every month."

Tig whistled low. "Five hundred bucks just to walk in the door?"

Serge nodded. "That gets you top shelf open bar all night and all the pasta, meatballs and fried calamari you can eat, amici." He then nodded towards a room guarded by two men. "And, uh, for a little extra there's another 'all-you-can-eat' buffet in back."

You couldn't have a place for men to gamble, smoke, drink and eat without a little pussy for dessert.

Hank extended his hand which Serge took. "My club'll be glad to hear this. Got two guys ready when you need 'em."

After making security arrangements, Serge led them back upstairs before they left out the front. Swinging on his bike, Tig regarded his new president. "Curious – how much of a donation did Tacoma make to that mini Las Vegas?"

"Quarter mil," Hank replied.

"Shit, Hank. Didn't know Tacoma had that kind of spare bank hangin' around."

Truth be told, Redwood probably would've had twice that amount if they didn't have to empty the storehouse to pay off attorney's for all the shit the club went through the last several years. It was obvious Tacoma played it close to the vest conducting club business and other than some stupid new patch currently doing a short stint, the club hadn't seen much trouble which resulted in jail time. Clay's history in Charming coupled with years of keeping the right people in his back pocket allowed him to take more chances. But as the years went on, those 'right people' disappeared, but not Clay's approach – and obvious greed which got him shot – whereas Hank was more methodical, more….safe. Maybe, just…._maybe_ Jax was doing the right thing trying to steer the club in a careful direction.

"We don't anymore," Hank replied. "But we wouldn't have voted on this if the return investment wasn't lucrative. Serge's family is neck deep in money and took us a while to establish relations with 'em. Just wait, brother. Trust me – it's going to be a very green Christmas this year. Now…let's take care of that other problem."

**~A~**

_Karen was dreaming. She had to be. Not only did she have enough cold medicine in her to keep her from standing upright, she was wearing that cerulean Carlo Palazzi dress Preston brought back with him from Italy which was now hanging in a nearby consignment shop._

_Shielding her eyes from the camera flashes, Karen hid behind Biagiotti sunglasses as she made her way up the courthouse steps – her attorney glued to her side. Off to the side, her parents stood, shaking their heads with disapproval. Reporters shouted questions, elbows nudged her, hands reached out to her as the heel of her Cavalli slingback got caught in a crack in the cement. She stumbled, but caught herself in time, just as she caught her reflection in the window. Why the hell was she dressed like this? She was supposed to be portraying the deceived employee, the jilted fiancée, the betrayed lover. A simple black skirt and white oxford would've done perfectly – instead, draped in the finest designer clothes and accessories embezzled funds could afford, she looked as guilty as Preston did._

_Once she passed through the doors, her outfit changed – jeans, sweater and flats, her hair in a ponytail, eyes swollen from crying while her face wore not a drop of makeup. On one side of the courtroom stood Preston – dashing and stylish in a dark blue pinstripe suit, hundred dollar haircut and nails buffed to a high shine, the diamond 'P' pinkie ring reflecting off the camera bulbs still flashing. She diverted her eyes away from the look of betrayal on his face, even though he deserved everything he got for what he did – and then did nothing to try to clear her._

_Swarmed by people, protected by her attorney, Karen somehow got pulled out of the crowd, Preston's hand clamped around her arm as he yanked her close. "Where is it, Karen?"_

"_Where's what?" she replied, trying to pull away. "Let go of me!"_

"_Where's the rest of my money?" His grip only got tighter._

_But still she tried to free herself. "I…..I don't know what you're talking about. And it isn't YOUR money."_

"_THIS was," he shot back. "That account had my legit money. You knew! You had the account number. Where is it?"_

The way she woke up in a sweat, Karen thought she had broken a fever. Instead something in the deep recess of her mind disturbed her sleep. Something which was…..familiar.

_What account number?_

**~A~**

"C'mon, brother," Hank said, dismounting his bike. "Let's go have some fun."

Following suit, Tig adjusted his sunglasses and looked around. The outside lights of The Moving Crew, where it rented space from a dilapidated warehouse, were just starting to flicker on while the lone truck was parked on the side. Entering through what served as an office entry door, both men were blindsided by a very familiar aroma as one of the guys came out. "Yeah, can I help you?" he asked, waving through the cloud of smoke.

"Ain't sure," Tig started, leaning on the front counter. "You really get in a truck after smokin' all that weed?"

The guy laughed, and then went cold. The sight of a patch usually did that to civilians. "Oh, uh…..course not," he stammered. "We're done for the day. Me and my partner just kickin' back and chillin'. It's cool, a'ight?" he said, holding his hand up for a bro-clasp.

"Just you and your partner?" Hank asked.

"Why?" Before he could get an answer, Tig rounded the counter and grabbed the guy by the back of the neck – shoving him towards the backroom with Hank following.

"Hey…..hey! What the fuck, man?"

"Shut up!" Tig ordered.

His partner in back took off between a row of crates. Maybe not as young, but certainly a lot smarter, Hank waited for him to come out from between them before tripping him. "Here's a hint, you stupid shit. When you're runnin' from someone, you run _away_ from them, not _towards_ them."

"A'ight look," the guy in Tig's grasp said. "I don't know what you want. We didn't do anything – just smoked a little pot."

"Yeah?" Tig asked, pushing him up against a pole. "You sure about that? You don't happen to, oh, I don't know, deliver a bed to some chick then take off without assemblin' it? _With_ a forty dollar tip."

The guy looked fucked. "Oh, man, c'mon! She stiffed us the week before. Had to pack it in the truck, drove all the way out and she never showed up. Never called. Nothin'."

Tig shoved him harder against the pole while Hank made sure his partner stayed on the floor where he fell. "Ever stop to think that maybe she had a good reason, dickhead?"

"Yeah, but…"

Tig smacked his face. "No _buts._ I wound up puttin' that bed together by myself - and, "Tig reached into the guy's back pocket," I expect to be compensated." Tossing it, the guy caught it. "I want the forty bucks you gave her – _now_."

"A'ight, a'ight," the guy said, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a fifty. "Uh….."

Tig snatched it. "Consider the extra ten gas money for havin' to drive all the way out here. Now," taking the guy by the collar he pulled him over to where Hank finally picked the partner up off the floor. "One more thing. Listen and listen carefully. You get a call from _anyone_ askin' about that bed delivery, you tell them you delivered it last Friday at three p.m. as scheduled you got me?"

"Okay, okay!"

Hank cut in. "Where you keep the delivery tickets?"

"Front desk," the he was holding answered.

He pushed him towards the front. "Get it," he ordered, following close behind with Tig and the other guy.

Tig took the book from the guy and began to flip the pages as one of the guys tried to make a run for it.

"Really?" Hank asked, pulling his piece.

"Oh, shit!" both guys said simultaneously.

"You will if you so much as move."

"Here it is," Tig said, yanking the actual delivery ticket out of the book. He then went to a blank ticket and wrote up a dummy for the last Friday before pulling the white copy. "Done."

"Pleasure doin' business with ya, fellas," Hank said, putting his piece away.

Tig pulled his out. "Remember," sticking his gun near the guy's crack, "you give anyone who calls about this delivery the wrong date, I'm gonna come back and give you my version of an enema."

"And if you so much as raise a peep about this," Hank chimed in, "I'm just gonna send my wife here. Believe me – you'll wish you had the enema instead."

With both guys looking as if they already shit their pants, Hank and Tig shared a laugh before leaving. Heading towards their bikes, Tig couldn't help notice his boss' grin. "Let me guess."

"I'm hard as a rock, brother," Hank proudly announced.

"I'd say overshare, pres, but considerin' what you're comin' up on, I'm…..happy for ya."

Starting their bikes, Hank strapped his helmet on. "Think I'll go home and give Nora a pre-surgery surprise. I suggest you go pay the redhead a visit and give her the good news."


	10. Chapter 10

**Last chapter before I leave tomorrow to visit the parentals, but I'm taking Tig & Karen with me to hopefully churn out two more on my laptop. I haven't enjoyed taking my time writing about two people without having to figure out too much in a while. Again, thanks to all reviewing and following this story on alert - glad to see so many Tig lovers out there.**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 10**

The hot water felt good spraying against Karen's skin – washing away the stickiness of that nightmarish dream. Even though she still felt like crap, the shower steam opened up her nasal passages allowing her to breathe a little easier. And not just from the cold she was trying to fight off.

Stepping out, she dried off then slipped into a floral, cotton robe. Towel drying her hair, she went back to the living room where the other source of her anxiety was emptied out of a banker's box and strewn across the leather sofa. Copies of document attachments and emails she had forwarded from her computer at Vine & Holdings when she wanted to work after hours at home. Shortly after investigators barged into the office and began taking files and hard drives, Karen knew it wouldn't be long before they discovered she had forwarded stuff to herself and that a search warrant would be serviced to confiscate her laptop. She had backed up all her files and printed out all emails before they did just that. They all wound up in a box with other miscellaneous desk supplies from her Seattle condo when she moved. Now they littered her living room.

That damn dream was like Preston's way of getting some kind of weird message to her from jail. She could only take fifteen minutes of going through the papers before her burgeoning head cold forced her toss everything aside and take a nice hot shower. Now she was too warm and comfortable to deal with the stress as she gathered up the papers and tossed them in the box.

A light rain began to fall again outside and the only comfort Karen had was that it was Friday night and tomorrow was her 'every other Saturday off' from the bank. Going into the kitchen, she filled a glass of water and plopped two Alka-Seltzer Plus cold tablets into it. She needed a good night's sleep tonight.

**~A~**

Damn, fucking rain!

Fortunately, it was only a mist which clouded his night goggles, but if there was one thing Tig learned in the month and a half he'd been here is that you don't trust whatever you see when you look out the window. He had no time to call Karen to give her a 'heads up' and it was too late now as he just pulled up in front of her place then sprinted to the entrance which took him to the stairwell that led to her townhouse. He couldn't go by seeing her car because she didn't have one and hoped she was home. He knocked once…..twice…..three times – the last with a bit more urgency and verbalization. "Kar – ya home?"

The door finally opened and the sight before him made him wish he'd called first. Karen looked half-asleep, her skin paler than he remembered and that mass of dark red hair wet on the ends. But it was from the neck down which caught his attention – a short robe with pretty-colored flowers all over and a loosening belt. Karen's hand instinctively clutching the gap forming between her breasts, but the lamp on the end table inside cast enough light behind her to where Tig saw she had nothing on underneath. Shit.

"Tig," she spoke with a barely-there voice as she covered herself even more with her arms. "What're you doing here?"

He swore his eyes could see through her arms. "You talk to anyone?"

She shook her head. "No. You told me not to until I heard from you."

"That's why I'm here."

"Couldn't you have called first?"

Her voice was raspy and that combined with her lethargic look made him feel like a tool. "Aw shit, doll. You sick?"

Karen shrugged. "Walking everywhere in this weather catches up to you. Just took some cold medicine about a half hour ago. Must've knocked me out."

"Inside," he said, shuttling her in along with himself. He wasn't about to wait for an invitation. He needed to let her know what went down today and how to proceed and wasn't going to do it with her standing in a drafty stairwell. And as much as he didn't want to, he got his visual fill of what that robe barely covered one last time. "Go put somethin' warm on – then we need to talk."

She looked as if she could barely walk on two legs right now, which made him feel like shit on a stick for dropping in unannounced at this time of night in a crap rainstorm. "I can make us coffee," she said, her brain struggling to function.

"I got it," he replied, giving her a nudge towards her bedroom. "Go."

In the kitchen he found that contraption called a Keurig on her counter with a metal carousel containing different flavored coffee cups next to it. At least he didn't have to wait for the coffee to brew. Pressing it on, he waited for the water to heat then found a k-cup which wasn't some nauseating flavor. Opening her fridge, he found it on the bare side, but still more than what was in his. He took a quart of what was called fat free half and half and dropped a bit in the coffee before searching the drawers for spoons. Finding one, he stirred once then took a much needed sip – the hot liquid taking the chill of the damp weather away almost immediately.

"Oh, you made your own?" Karen had entered wearing pajama pants, tank top and that same peach cardigan she had on the night he put her bed together. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a tight pony tail making her dark green eyes stand out against her makeup-less face. Tig thought she looked about ten years younger – despite the weight of what she'd been through the last year. Hell, at that rate he should look about seventy!

"Told ya I got it," he reminded her, then walked over. "Sure you okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Don't have to work tomorrow so I can sleep in. So…what happened? What am I gonna do about calling in the delivery information to the police?"

He took her by the arm and led her out of the kitchen. "C'mon, let's sit." At first he thought it odd she wasn't acting hysterical or not asking a ton of questions, but realized her cold medicine was still keeping her a bit loopy. In the living room, he moved some box aside on the leather sofa and sat her down first before he followed. "It's taken care of," he said, putting his coffee down on the end table before reaching inside his cut. "Here."

Taking the paper from his hands, Karen unfolded it to reveal the delivery ticket. "Oh, you brought it back."

"Nope – destroyed that one –_ and_ The Moving Crew's copy. _That's _a replacement. Look at the date."

She did – and looked perplexed. "But, this is the date I blew off."

"Not accordin' to that it ain't. Make a copy and give it to that cop. He still wants to call…..let's just say those two dickheads know exactly what to say."

That perplexed look turned stunned. "Tig….what did you do?"

"Got them to cooperate."

"How?"

Now the questions came and questions from civilians about club business almost always went unanswered. But she wasn't an idiot and left it up to her to come to her own conclusion. "You remember how we met, saw what I did, how I'm handlin' it. You figure it out, Karen."

For a split second she appeared almost scared of him, but never shied away. She was no jaded club chick, but had been tainted by enough real life not to be phased by a little underhandedness. "I guess that means they're both still breathing."

He could've taken that as a sarcastic dig, but in her woozy state it was some odd attempt to poke fun at how they met. "Still shittin' their pants, but alive. Oh, yeah…..here." Again, he reached into his cut and pulled out the fifty dollar bill. "Said you wanted it back anyway. And…..don't ask how."

"I think we're past that," Karen said, taking the money from him. "But I gave them forty."

"Consider the other ten pain and sufferin'."

She just stared at him, shaking her head in confusion. "Why, Tig? Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?"

"I'm in this just as much as you, doll."

"But you could've….." she cut herself off.

"Could've….._what_?"

She paused a bit then finished. "Could've…just protected yourself and left me to the wolves."

He could've. And there was a time he would've done whatever he could to clear himself – and the club – of any shit, even at the expense of some chick. It had been done – one too many times – due to his fuck-ups that the club had to pull strings to protect him. But not the last time – not what brought him out here. Transferring to Tacoma was nothing more than a glorified exile. To leave this chick to her own devices – something she had already experienced – would only prove Jax right about him. "I ain't your boyfriend sittin' in prison. And you wouldn't be in this if it wasn't for me cuttin' in like that – and gettin' ya out before the cops showed up. Everything you're goin' through – it's on me. Said I wouldn't abandon ya and I ain't."

She sat back – her body almost enveloped by the plush sofa – the ticket in one hand, the money in the other. "I know I've said this too many times already, but…thank you." She held up the money. "Especially getting this back."

"Use it to fill that fridge up."

She laughed. "Maybe if I feel better I'll take a cab or the bus to the market on Sunday."

He really had to admire her – losing just about everything, being in financial dire straits and taking it all in stride. He didn't have the audacity to complain about anything in his life. Reaching for his coffee, he noticed the box he shoved out of the way. "What's this?"

She looked as if she wished he hadn't brought it up. "Just….the past. I don't know, maybe it's the cold medicine, but I had this weird dream…nightmare more like it. Preston's trial. Was threatening me about knowing where his legitimate money was."

"Do you?"

"No. I think any legitimate accounts he had would've been frozen. I used to forward emails from work to my laptop to work on from home. After the raid, I knew they'd come for it so I printed and saved everything before they did. Started going through that stuff looking for …..anything, but just gave up. Definitely isn't a past I want to relive."

He knew the feeling – all too well. And didn't want to harp on it anymore. Instead, he stuck to their current predicament. "So, you square on what you gotta do?"

She nodded. "Yeah. That should be enough of an alibi, but….."

"But what?"

"That witness," she said. "The one the cops said saw a redhead, heard a man and a woman arguing then a bike take off. Think it was just a bluff, or could someone have seen or heard something last Friday?"

Tig was so concerned about making sure those delivery douches were on board that he had forgotten that little tidbit. But she didn't. "Don't know, doll."

She yawned deeply – doing her best to stifle it with the back of her hand as she sunk deeper into the leather. "Anyway you can, you know…..find out?" she lazily asked, the fatigue in her voice catching up with her body which didn't flinch when a flash of lightening was following by thunder and a spattering of heavy rain. Instead, her eyes just got heavier as did her voice. "Guess you're stuck here a bit," she said with one more yawn before her eyes closed for good.

The rain pounded against the windows – it's heavy sound the only thing in the room besides Karen's even breathing. Knowing he was stuck here until the rain let up or stopped, he decided to give Hank a call to see if Tacoma had anyone they could trust in PD and get some intel on this mysterious witness. But before he could unfold himself out of that cushy leather sofa, Karen's head casually slumped against his shoulder.

Now he was really stuck. It was times like this he missed the dry, comfortable climate of NorCal where it was always bike weather, but he was now stuck here in a wet version of Siberia courtesy of Jax Teller. He already inconvenienced her enough tonight, not to mention she was sick from walking all over Tacoma in this gray weather.

He leaned his own head back – wondering what the hell he was in the middle of here and why the hell he cared so much other than keeping her close to make sure his own ass stays out of a sling. Other than an ol' lady, in his world, females were disposable objects needed only when necessary. And with his track record – the extent of his relationship with them went from the bed to the door. The list of females - from his ex, to his daughters, to Donna Winston, to Veronica Pope – was too much collateral damage to add another innocent female to the list. Hopefully, when the police questioning died down and the heat was completely off both of them, these necessary impromptu visits would end.

And no sooner that her body turned in sleep, pressing her face against his upper arm, did Tig realize how much that thought didn't sit well with him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

She may have been experiencing the morning after-effects which accompany strong cold medicine, but Karen wasn't too out of it to know something was….off. Mainly the fact that she woke up buried under the crisp sheets and warm comforter of her new bed when she knew full well she fell asleep on the couch last night. Next to Tig.

"Oh God no," she exclaimed, throwing the covers back to find herself in exactly what she had changed into last night when he had shown up – minus the peach cardigan, which was tossed over the arm of a gold and brown damask chair in the corner of her bedroom. Thankful her first fear was put to rest, she headed out to the living to find it – and the rest of her condo – empty. He wasn't here, but knew he left at some point – after he most likely picked her up and put her in bed. How pathetic that must've looked? Not exactly the kind of chivalrous act she'd expect from a biker who caused a guy's death then shook the fear of God – along with fifty bucks – out of those two delivery men. Who the heck was this Alexander 'Tig' Trager?

She quickly checked the coffee table and kitchen and didn't find any note he may have left behind. The banker's box filled with the remnants of her disastrous past with Vine & Holdings still remained on the couch. She then tried desperately to remember how much – if any – she may have told him about that. It was the last time she'd mix Alka Seltzer Plus cold tablets with Nyquil. At least she felt better. A little groggy, but better. Well rested with the pressure in her head and sinuses gone.

She only wished her anxiety over this entire situation would vanished too.

Checking the clock it was almost ten - and glad to have had today off. After using the bathroom, she headed to the kitchen and went to turn on the Keurig – only to find it already on – a used Green Mountain k-cup still inserted in it. She quickly glanced in the sink to find a coffee mug with an inch of cold, black coffee left in it – the only evidence of Tig being here last night. Removing the used one, she replaced it with a cinnamon latte k-cup and placed a clean mug under it – the spicy scent bringing back a bittersweet memory when she and Preston headed down to a B&B in Oregon one fall to take in the foliage on a horse and buggy ride through the scenic countryside while sipping hot, spiced cider. And as immediate as that memory swept her mind, she swept it right out as the thought of how that extravagant long weekend was paid for.

But that dream about Preston claiming he had a legitimate account with clean money – what if he used those funds? Would it have made it any better because he was storing up stolen client money elsewhere? Did this legitimate account really exist, or was it a product of a cold medicine-induced dream?

Taking her coffee, Karen decided to use her day off to make a 'to do' list – make the bed, dust the hardwood floors, clean the bathroom, go through the cupboards and fridge for a grocery run – anything to keep her busy and her mind off the new reality in her life.

She got through just about everything, then finally took a shower, blew dry her wavy hair out straight with a roll brush. What she was primping for she had no idea, but it made her feel alive, gave her purpose and dabbing on a bit of makeup just completed that transformation. She had just slipped into jeans, white tank and a thin, navy cardigan when she heard a knock on the door. Immediately she thought it was Tig who hadn't bothered to call again first, but asked first. "Who is it?"

"Officer Stanton, miss Spencer."

It was the cop investigating James Eisen's death – the one who had been visiting her at the bank and hadn't bothered to use his name nor had she. She remembered it from the card he gave her in exchange for the delivery company's information. Taking a breath, she opened the door and greeted him politely – though….curious. "How did you know where I lived?"

"There isn't much the police can't find," Stanton replied. "May I come in?"

"I was just about to head out."

"Then I'll only be a minute. Was in the area and thought I'd swing by to see if you have that information for me – you know, the delivery company?"

_Thank you, Tig_, her mind said, as if she hadn't thanked him enough these last few weeks. Walking over to the coffee table, Karen picked up the fake ticket Tig had given her last night then brought it back to Stanton. "Here," she said, offering him a smug grin. "Would you like me to write the information down for you, officer?" Damn, was she actually enjoying conning a cop?

Stanton pulled his trusty flip pad out. "No, I got it," he said, copying the information down. "Appreciate it, Miss Spencer."

"No problem – and it's Karen."

"Mm, hmm," he hummed. "That's right. _Karen_. Karen _Spencer_. You know," he paused, shaking his finger in thought," your address isn't the only thing I managed to dig up with your address. Seems you have quite a past, Karen. Last thing you need is further trouble with the law."

It was one thing to assume she had anything to do with James Eisen's death, but it was quite another to dredge up something which happened over a year go which she was one hundred percent innocent. "I beg your pardon, officer?" She tried to sound as irate as possible without pissing off a cop.

"I'm just saying that I hope everything you've provided is on the up and up. I don't think you want to be connected to another….infraction."

Using a broader term to make an alleged homicide sound less than it was just made Officer Stanton's condescending manner pull Karen's last nerve. She walked over to the door. "You asked me questions and I answered them. You wanted information and I gave it to you. You come over here unannounced and start slinging around an incident I had absolutely nothing to do with after I've been nothing but cooperative." She opened the door for him. "It's Saturday, it's my day off and I have things to do so I would appreciate it if you would leave."

Looking thoroughly put in his place, Officer Stanton, took his cue and headed to the door. "Point taken, Karen," he said defeatedly, waving his flip pad. "I'll be checking in with The Moving Crew to confirm this."

She smiled sweetly, all the while picturing Tig threatening those two drivers with God knows what in the back of her mind. "You go ahead and do that. Have a good day, officer."

Closing the door behind him, Karen's felt her throat tighten where the coffee had risen mixed with bile. '_Please, Tig'_, she whispered to herself. '_Please let whatever you did yesterday work out.'_

Suddenly in no mood to go out, she flopped on the couch and turned on the television – the box containing her past suddenly looking a lot less threatening that what just transpired as she dragged it over to try sorting through the documents again.

**~A~**

A few bikes were parked in front of the clubhouse as Tig's bike followed Nora's black Lincoln Navigator inside the lot around eleven. As she pulled down, Tig went left – backing his bike in line with the others. The lot was pretty empty and only two cars were being worked on in the garage as he watched Nora get out and head towards the office. But before she did, she paused to light a cigarette – preferring to blow the smoke into the overcast, late May afternoon. Not seeing Hank's bike, Tig made his way over as Nora's eyes followed him all the way. "You on the clock today, Tigger?"

"Nah. What're you doin'?"

She clasped her cigarette between well manicured fingers. "Smoke break."

"You just got here."

"Yeah, so. You're point?"

And he thought Gemma wasn't one to be trifled with. Nora didn't take any shit, but did so without openly disrespecting a patch. "Don't see your ol' man's bike. He comin' down?"

Sucking on the filter, she shook her head. "Takin' it easy today. Ain't nothing going on club-wise I don't think. Surprised to see any of you guys here this early especially after last night's fiesta."

It wasn't only Redwood which celebrated the end of a hard-worked week with Friday night blow-outs. Seems it was a Sons tradition across the board and Tacoma was no different. "I didn't make it. Surprised it didn't get rained out."

"Rain don't put a damper on booze and bimbos," Nora told him. "So, what kept you away?"

It wasn't booze or a bimbo, but rather coffee and a sick redhead who fell asleep against him. He couldn't go anywhere anyway until the rain died down and when it finally did, he didn't have the heart to wake her up, but didn't want to leave her where she was – especially after he painstakenly put that bed together with his two hands. And she had enough cold medicine in her that she barely flinched, let alone woke up when he carefully lifted her off the couch, placed her in bed, removed her heavy sweater then drew the covers up. Something had to be in the rainwater here which turned tough hard men into chivalrous gentlemen. "Had somethin' to take care of after we left the delivery place."

"Yeah – how'd that go?"

"Think next time you have somethin' delivered they'll tip you instead."

"Not that," Nora said, "though that's good to hear. Talking about what you had to take care of….._afterwards."_

Hank's ol' lady was coy, but sharp – her eyebrow lifting in question as she took another hearty drag of her cigarette. Tig knew Hank told his wife certain shit just like Clay hadn't kept Gemma in the dark. He just wasn't in the mood to field questions he didn't know how to answer. "Went fine."

"Mmm, hmm," Nora hummed, not buying it one bit as she dropped the cigarette to be crushed under the weight of her expensive stiletto boots. "I bet it did, blue eyes."

"Ain't like that," he protested.

"It always is – in the beginning. But men relent because we're women and no matter how much they'll bitch about it otherwise, sooner or later you get wrapped so tight you'll crack."

"What, you playin' match maker, mama?" He really did like the fact he could be himself around Nora the way he was around Gemma.

"Darlin', trust me – none of you men need my help scoring pussy. It's keeping a good woman is where most of you are clueless."

Tig shook his head. "What did I do to deserve this abuse?"

"You kidding – you'll thank me one day," she confidently said. "Anyway, if you need Hank you can call him at home."

"Nah, don't wanna bother 'im. Saw Frisk's bike – think he can help instead."

Nora flashed a smile as she opened the office door. "_More_ help? You must really like this one, blue eyes. Later."

She closed the door leaving Tig with no room for rebuttal. His relationship with Karen was based on both of them keeping each other's asses out of jail – nothing more. What was it about women trying to read deeper into shit? Entering the clubhouse, he found Frisk playing pool with a hangaround while a couple of sweetbutts leftover from the night before waited in the wings. If there was a party last night, either it was low key or the place got cleaned up real early. Just a trash can filled with empty bottles, the lingering aroma of weed and cigarette smoke, an oiled up stripper pole and his boot sticking to some spilled beer or…whatever on the floor were the only signs of last night's debauchery. "Hey….Frisk. Gotta a minute?"

He may be the low man on the totem pole here in terms of charter seniority, but Tig's tenure as the mother charter president's strong arm and enforcer earned him high respect from the young, yet long time patches here – including the resident techno-geek. "Sure, brother," he said, laying down his pool cue. "What up?"

"Tacoma PD," he began. "You guys got plants in there we can trust?"

"Couple," Frisk replied. "Got someone in records, another who works with forensics and a general clerk. This about that sitch with that bank chick?"

Tig nodded. "Yeah. Hank and I took care of one snag yesterday, but seems they got a witness who may've seen and heard too much. Need to know if you can get a name and a four-one-one."

"I'll make inquiries."

"Good," Tig replied, seeing Lorca walk in. "I'll bring Lorca up to speed – don't wanna bother Hank."

"You got it. Need some basic info."

Opening his phone, Tig pressed a button. "No problem."

**~A~**

_Vancouver Private Investment? What the…._

Amid the mixed paperwork and emails she had hastily printed out before her laptop was confiscated, Karen kept coming across docs with this name on it. At first it shouldn't have come as no surprise since Preston – sometimes with her – made several business trips to Vancouver. Perhaps it was just another firm he was investing client funds into before he decided skim a little for himself.

But there seemed to have been several non-electronically transmitted docs which had made it into the box somehow. At first she couldn't wrap her head around how these envelopes with banking agreements and statements got in there, but it dawned upon her that the day prior to the raid she had taken the key to the postal box and retrieved several days worth of business mail which she had left on her kitchen table the following morning. And after authorities rained down on Vine & Holdings, after she was held for three hours fielding question after question about her lying fiancé, Karen had been released to go home where she immediately printed everything off her laptop before saving most of its contents to a flashdrive. After scrounging her condo, she found a banker's sized box which still held some books and knick-knacks after she moved into The Lumen. Emptying the contents, she filled it with the printouts before remembering the mail she left on the kitchen table. Sweeping it in with the rest, she buried the box in the trunk of her car. Three days later she was served with a search warrant in which her gorgeous, luxury condo was turned upside down. They took the laptop, but found nothing else.

Because anything which may have been incriminating may have been in that unopened mail.

Staring at the postmark which was a little more than a year ago, Karen opened the first of many envelopes when she heard the faint ringings of a phone. It wasn't the old fashioned ringtone of her iPhone so it only left one other alternative.

Tig.

Hopping off the couch, she retrived her purse and the ringing phone inside. "Hello?"

"_It's me."_ Short, sweet and no introduction necessary.

"Hey. What's up?"

There was a bit of a pause before he answered. _"Feelin' a'ight?"_

A tiny smirked twitched the side of her mouth – Tig actually sounded uncomfortable asking that. "Better. And I'm guessing it was you who transferred me and not some ghost who likes heavy lifting."

"_Wasn't gonna leave ya on the couch – especially after breakin' my back puttin' that bed together." There_ was something endearing about a man who gruffly tried to cover up a good deed as if it emasculated him. "_Need some info, doll. What's the name of that cop visitin' ya at the bank?"_

"Stanton. Officer Stanton. And…he just visited me as of fifteen minutes ago."

"_What? He was there?"_

"Showed up unannounced – seems to be happening to me a lot lately."

Luckily he ignored the sarcasm. _"What he want?"_

"Let's just say what you did last night – nick of time. Wanted the delivery company info. Says he's gonna call and follow up as well."

"_You know that's covered, right?"_

She didn't want to know how – she just took him at his word that he got those two assholes to cooperate before making one of them fifty bucks poorer. "I know."

"_That all he want?"_

She was silent with her own pause before answering. "Yes."

"_Kar?"_

"What?"

"_What else?"_

She sighed. "Nothing. About the…situation at least. Must've run my name and was rewarded with some delightful reading from The Seattle Times. Threw it up in my face."

"_Fuck – douchebag_," she heard Tig mutter. "You let me know if he drops in again?"

"I will."

"Just…lay low the rest of the weekend - and stay local."

"With only two feet to get around on I can't go very far." Again, a pause as if he caught himself in thought before she continued. "Tig?"

"Yeah?"

"That other…thing we talked about last night. That what you need Stanton's name for?"

"Don't worry about it."

"You keep telling me that, but you know that's hard for me to do right now."

"Kar – I got it covered. Trust me."

Said the biker helping her cover up the details of a dead body. He was a stranger asking her to trust him – which was more than she could count on the man who slipped a ring on her finger over a year ago.

_'You and me - we're gonna have a good life, Karen - trust me_,' Preston had once told her.

"I am, Tig. You have no idea how much I am."


	12. Authors Note

To my awesome readers:

Alas, I hate to say it, but it looks as if I will not be able to continue with this story. This is the third one which I started and had to back out of for various. And I'm abiding by the 'three strikes you're out' rule. I think it's just the universe's way of telling me it's time to bow out of FF for good and take on other endeavors. I'm truly, truly sorry not to mention a little embarrassed. One of the things I always wanted to do was finish what I start so this bothers me - a lot. And I don't want to leave an unfinished story up either so I will be deleting it after I feel sure everyone who is following it has seen this.

Things have changed a lot since I first came on the scene here in Dec 2010. I had a schedule which allowed me LOTS of time to write, whereas now both my business model as well as my responsibilities to my employer have changed drastically. As for home, hubs and I are making long term plans for things which have to be done around our much neglected house - some of which I'm taking on myself in dribs and drabs - which is the basis for my new endeavor. I will be updating my profile with the details in case anyone's interested in checking it out. It's a way for me to get some necessary things done and still keep writing.

I was considering just removing the story quietly without an AN (as I did the last one which felt as if I was forcing a saga which should've stopped 2 stories ago), but I decided against it. Everyone who has ever reviewed, followed or favorited me or my stories - THANK YOU SO MUCH! You all rock immensely! You have given me much needed confidence, laughs, cries and whatnot over the past 3 years.

Thanks again and feel free to see what I'm up to elsewhere!

Elena


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